Incognito
by amyblair
Summary: With less than three months before the deal is up, Dean and Sam have found themselves in a family owned motel where mysterious murders are occurring all linked to one family. The brothers stay to investigate but what they find is not what they expected.
1. Chapter 1

**Incognito**

**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em – that would be the Krip and the fellas down at the CW. Just having fun with the boys.

**Set Up:** Takes up after Jus in Bello, Dean has under three months until the deal is done. It follows my other story Lost and Found, but not necessary to read it, just references a couple of things here and there.

**Chapter One – The Jolly Rogers**

Had they known now what they didn't know then, neither one of the brothers would have stayed to investigate. Neither one would have looked into things any further. Neither would have put the other in harms way. Neither would have ever guessed what the job really was about in the end. Because for now, it was only the beginning…

Funny how things have a way of working out. The Winchester boys had spent a few days in Rapid City, SD having a body shop work extensively with the Impala. She needed a new hood, a new frame, a new axle, a lot of news. New things from a crash that had happened a few days before, crushing more than just the car. Things they couldn't afford, but Sam always kept a couple of emergency credit cards if needed for major expenses and this fit right under the category of major. To top things off the shop gave Dean's baby a new coat of Midnight spray and made sure the chrome reflected his pearly whites as he grinned at her. They had spent the five days it took to fix the car as a makeshift vacation, wandering the town, seeing a few sights. Sam could hardly contain himself seeing Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse, which Dean commented were both "pretty cool", his real joy coming from seeing Sam's excitement at the wonders. They toured a few caves and listened to the tale of how some guy who owned the land long ago brought his dead little girl there instead of burying her so he could visit whenever he wanted. The temperature was cool enough, she didn't spoil. That had been her home for years until the state forced him to bury her after local teenagers would come in and… do things to her body. And then the tour guide lowered her voice an octave into a spooky tone, saved for stories told around a campfire and she described how legend said the cave was still haunted by the girl's spirit. So Dean and Sam broke in later that night, of course, and spent the night in the cavern, where the girl had laid so long ago. But nothing happened, nothing appeared, nothing came to visit. Except for bats. And Dean hated bats.

Once the car was finished, they were back on the road headed for an area outside of North Sioux City, SD. Waiting for the Impala to heal her own wounds, Sam pleasantly discovered that they were not far from yet another Indian tribe, the Lakota, where there was a famous Healer, someone said to have phenomenal powers. Someone they both held hope could get Dean out of his deal. Break it without welching, if that was even possible. Dean had pressed the Chevy hard, it was still Winter, the snow still piled along the highway, but there had been plenty of sunny days that had melted everything off the pavement and in the cold the Impala's engine didn't just purr, she roared.

They had arrived at night and wasted no time in locating Mr. Tell. Sam was quick to spill their story, beginning with their father and his deal, the yellow-eyed demon, how they killed it… and the just before… it always came back to that now. How Dean had made the selfish deal so his brother would be alive. Sold his soul to the devil or whatever it was. They had to tell, had to explain the entire story to a man like this. There was no omitting, no bending the truth, it was all in front of him. The hearts, the spades, the clubs and the diamonds. This man was not like the one-fourth Indians, three-fourths Americans they had left back in the badlands. This was the real McCoy. A full-blooded red man, weathered hard from age and life, living in a large, warm teepee, with feathers and incense, and paint for tattoos and rods for piercings. His eyes were black, darker than the night and they watered back to them as the boys told their story, first the younger, followed by interruptions from the elder. The old Indian's tears flowed feeling their desperation, knowing their pain and cursing their need. Sam swallowed hard, Dean's eyes were hopeful as he took their hands and they sat in a tranquil circle together. The Lakota took it all in, closing his orbs, processing it with a power so quiet all each brother heard was the other one breathing. The Healer dipped his chin forward, chanting softly, his voice growing with strength and then muting whispers. Sam felt a force run through him, running the length of his arms, flowing into his brothers, wondering if Dean was feeling it as well. Dean's hand gripped back and his head fell forward, his chin hanging heavily. The old Indian felt the force come back full circle, he let out a startled gasp and dropped the brothers' hands, Sam's first and then Dean's. His eyes popped open and he spoke robotically, simple words coming from his mouth.

"Cannot help you."

Sam blinked, he felt Dean's muscles tighten. "What? Why?'

The red man shook his head. "I am a Healer. Not a magician. What you have brought to me, I empathize with, but I cannot help you. It is not natural."

Sam put his head in his hands. The Lakota had no offerings to them on where they could look, where they _should_ look. He suggested they stay away from answers dealing with more Evil. Their souls were already tainted. Their lives were no longer pure. Look for the Good, he suggested. The Natural, if possible. The Earth would be best. He made absolutely no sense to the hunters, talking in riddles, giving them puzzles. When the fact remained the same - they were still up a creek without any answers, with no paddle, without being any closer to liberation. Freedom. But he had tried, he had listened, he had spent time with them. That was more than most had done on their path towards emancipation.

Dean extended his hand, the Great Leader shaking it, pointing up the road towards North Sioux City where they could find a bed to lay on, get some sleep before morning came. "_The_ _Jolly Rogers_, ask for Jolly. Or if he's not there, ask for Clancy, his daughter, she'll be working in the café. Tell them I sent you. They will treat you well and _please_, let Jolly know I said hello." He held the please, held Dean's eyes until the hunter agreed with a nod back to him.

Sam stood and dipped his head to the Native, reaching his hand out to him, only to have the man step back, keeping solid with the nod that Sam had started. Sam looked down at his own empty palm and cautiously withdrew it back, noting Dean's observation of the peculiarity.

"Down the road, you sleep," the Lakota began and then turned, "But in the morning, you go."

Maybe the old Indian knew where he was sending the brothers. He understood on some level the kind of men they were. Hunters. Maybe he sensed something during their short visit, saw more than he led on when he closed his eyes. Held their hands. But reflecting back to that short time with what they knew now, it seemed strange that he would pick that motel to direct them to. The name, the owner, the daughter. And then end it on a warning, a last ditch chance for the brothers to heed… but in the morning, you go. Staring into his reflection in the rearview mirror, Dean didn't think that the old Lakota ever believed the boys would have listened to him anyway. Because what Dean thought was… that old man knew not just what they were. He knew who they were. They were Winchesters.

_The Jolly Rogers_ was similar to any other motel they had stayed in. It was rows of rooms all on one floor, dingy to the touch, thin walls, wet smelling carpet, but with cable access, wireless Internet, two queen sized beds and a lit vacancy sign in a frenzied flash, encouraging cars in from the road.

Home away from home, or Impala.

They had went in together, Sam wanting to scour the vending machine for jerky, chips, candy bars. It was already 2:30 a.m. and there wasn't anything awake for business in this petite but charming town. Dean had shuffled up to the counter and hit the bell at the front desk, turning to watch Sam deposit in his quarters. A tall thin brunette walked out to greet them, she was in her later thirties, her eyes deep blue, her hair was messy as though she had just sat up from laying down. She looked at the older of the two and sighed. No smile, almost a grimace. "Room?"

"Yeah," Dean answered tiredly, throwing the fake plastic on the counter in front of her. And then because he'd been asked to, "Jolly around?"

The woman's eyes flicked up to his, narrowing a moment and then releasing her hold. "Nope."

Dean nodded, glanced over his shoulder at Sam still making his selections and then back towards the woman. "You Clancy?"

She stopped filling the registration form out and looked back up to Dean. "I am, Mr…" she took the credit card and looked at the name, "Reginald Chavez."

Dean flashed her a smile. "Yeah, my Dad… I was named after my Dad and two Reggies in the house didn't go well… I go by Dean. My, uh, middle name." He felt Sam look over from his button pushing and shake his head at his older brother.

Clancy tossed the card back at Reggie and he quickly swiped it up, placing it back in it's dog-eared slot in his black leather wallet.

"Why do you ask?" her voice scraped out. Dean wasn't the only one that was tired.

Dean motioned with his shoulder towards the road. "We just rolled in and a few miles back ran into a Mr. Tell. He told us to come by." He heard Sam ripping into a bag of chips and started crunching them hungrily.

"Mr. Tell." She nodded, not questioning the boys. Her eyes seemed to linger a moment somewhere in time. "I'll take ten dollars off and you can each have a cinnamon roll on the house tomorrow."

Continental breakfast? Now that was something they weren't use to in a dive motel.

Sam had turned the key and brought in his clothing duffel along with the weapons. He laid them down by the farthest bed with a thud and fell back happily onto his mattress. The room was small, the walls white, the bedspreads red and blue. It was as if Betsy Ross had thrown up and it stuck to the décor. The mattress was lumpy, old and kept shaking a good twenty seconds after he flopped his long-limbed form on it.

Dean threw his duffel in the corner near the TV, sitting on the end of his bed, prodding his boots off, letting them fall where they landed. He pulled his socks off and yanked his jeans down, rolling them up into a ball and throwing them towards the duffel. He stripped to his boxers and t-shirt and left it at that. No shower, not tonight. He was exhausted after yet another goose chase of catch-the-magic-potion-to-save-my-soul had evaporated into thin air before his very eyes. He pulled back the stiff covers and tucked himself in.

"Sam." He looked over at his little brother when he got no response and watched as Sam lay, sprawled out all over the queen, clothes on, boots on, coat zipped up, his breaths coming deep and long. Sleep. It sounded good and Dean had no energy to get up and turn off the light so he surrendered and let his body relax, no knife under his pillow, the weapon bag over by his snoring brother, vulnerable to what lay in the dark of night, and fell asleep.

His eyes lifted heavily and sluggishly, brushing up at the clock. 5 a.m. blared back to him in liquid red rubies. Dean turned his head and looked around the room, the day still dark, the sun hidden behind the black outside. The light was still on and something else. He squinched his eyes and realized it was the TV. He looked over to his brother and saw Sam in bed, curled up in a wiry ball, still clothed, still booted. It didn't look like he had woken and had been watching TV, but maybe Dean had slept through it. He wanted to get up and shut it off, but it was still too early and his body hurt. Evangelist. _What else would be on at this hour?_ Preaching about Heaven versus Hell. Save your soul, pray to God, reject Evil, accept Good. Dean sighed deeply. _Couldn't be Happy Days, could it? The Fonz, now he was cool_.

And Dean fell back to sleep.

The café, _Get Your Jolly's_, was attached to the motel, a small, sweet-smelling nook that only had room for six seating areas. It was bright in the day, with blue pendulant lights hanging down, the interior had wallpaper in the pattern of old paneling. There were only booths, no freestanding tables, no bar to saddle up to. Very quaint, very small town. The morning desk clerk had pointed to the menus sitting on a table as they walked into the eatery, passing the hand written sign: "Seat Yourself" displayed on an easel. They walked in and strolled to their table, Sam ducking under the pendulants after he clocked himself on the forehead as he unfortunately greeted the first one. He looked around the cafe, noting there was no one else there but them. They had the pick of the place. The younger brother had chosen the booth near the window, catching in some rays from the Winter sun, watching folks stroll on the sidewalks, chattering amongst themselves. Small town locals. Just the way they liked them. The boys opened the menus and pressed their noses in when the wonderful sound of coffee being poured into ceramic white mugs served on tiny white saucers perked their attention. Clancy stood, setting two cups down for them and then turned to her side, grabbing two additional plates with cinnamon rolls.

"V.I.P.'s," she stated, keeping her deal to the hunters. Not even attempting to welch on it.

Sam smiled at her. "Back again?"

She shook her head, her eyebrows raising, her face sober. "Never left."

Dean giggled. "What is this? The Hotel California?"

She gave him a look and turned away, her hips swaying beneath the bow of her white apron, showing her age, the two children she'd probably had over the years. The feeling that her body was much older than her real age. It all rested in those hips.

"Where to now, Sammy-boy?" Dean twirled his attention back to his brother, knowing that beneath it all, the tired eyes, the hair that was growing too long, the heart that was weighing too heavy, his little brother had only one thing on his mind.

Sam looked back at him, shrugging one shoulder in temporary defeat. "Dunno." He looked out the window. "Waiting to hear back from Bobby on a couple of leads." Bobby lived around the area, about a half hours drive from where they were staying, but he was out on his own hunt right now, squeezing in time for his surrogates, trying to break deals without making one of his own in the process.

"Good. Something'll come along." Dean tried to sound optimistic… for Sam, of course.

It was a growing need for both of them. Growing in urgency. Just under three months. Tick-tock. Each day was a blessing and a curse, something each of them hugged close and despised. Every day Dean felt a shudder through his body, his spine feeling as though it was curving ahead at his neck, wrinkles deepening, his hair graying. Getting old before his time, his body slowly altering into the old man death was suppose to claim. Sam saw it all, unfolding before him. He felt the pull, the desire Dean needed to break the deal. And Sam wanted to break it for him. For himself. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life. His appetite had dwindled, sleep was coming in spurts and the hole in his stomach was engulfing him. Mom, Dad, Jessica… he couldn't add another name to the list. One more name and that would leave only one person standing in line. Abandoned. Deserted. He was already an orphan, but this, this would be forever alone. He never thought in a million years one word would scare him to death. But it did.

Clancy swished back. "Get you anything?" Her hand perched with pen, ready to write at whim.

Dean glanced up. "Eggs, scrambled." He looked at Sam.

Sam shook his head back.

"Pancakes?" Dean asked, lifting his eyebrows, playfully.

Another shake.

He smiled at Clancy. "Blueberry. Lots of syrup." He motioned his finger between himself and his brother, two orders. She nodded and started away. "Oh, Clance –" Dean called out and the brunette stopped, rotating back, "is Jolly around?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

Dean hesitated. "Expecting him soon?"

She took in a breath and blew her hair out of her eyes. "No."

"Huh." Dean stared over to her. "So, is he as Jolly as his name claims?"

Clancy walked the two steps back to the table. She bent down, resting her elbows on the counter between the boys, her blue eyes snapping towards Dean. "Not anymore."

Dean gawked his head back for a second, catching Sam's frowned expression out of the corner of his eye. "Okay, awkward." He paused a second and then diffused his tone. "Come again?" He pulled away from her, uncomfortable with the personal space invasion she was creating.

Clancy looked over at Sam. "How do you know Mr. Tell?" she asked, trying the younger brother out.

Sam smirked. "Helped us last night with a problem, never met him before but he wanted us to stop by and see Jolly."

Clancy rolled herself back up, bringing her elbows with her, tight to her sides. "Well, Jolly just lost his wife."

_Oh_. Sam and Dean caught a quick look between each other and then both back up to Clancy. Her mother. "I'm sorry." They both meaningfully responded together.

The woman nodded. "Yeah, it was a surprise. To all of us. We didn't see it coming."

It was always a tough subject to approach, hard to keep it soft without prying, gentle without pushing, close but not too close, coax, but not get caught…

"It was sudden then. How did it happen?" Sam spoke up, giving her his sweet dewy eyes. The eyes that spoke to her soul - I understand, you can tell me, you can trust me, I'm going to turn into a monster one day…

"Suicide. So they say." Her voice hard, her body rocking from side to side, nervous.

"They say?" Dean spoke.

"The cops. They said it was _probably_ suicide. I guess it had to be, though. If it wasn't it would have to be…" her voice trailed off.

The boys waited.

"Murder, maybe," she said, gloomy.

Sam's head tilted towards her, his eyes remaining soft. "She shot herself?"

Clancy let out a noise, not a laugh, not a huff. Just an odd, pained sound. "No. She never held a gun. She wouldn't know how to use one, or how to hang herself and she hated pills. They didn't have a garage." She looked out the window, deep thoughts, thinking about her Mother doing those things. Killing herself the conventional ways. "No, she drowned herself. In the silo."

Dean looked down now trying to picture that one himself.

"They live on this old farm, my Mom and Dad. And there is this ancient silo, full of water. When they had the well they'd use it for their back up water supply and to feed the animals, but the farm hasn't been operating for years now. Dad sold all the cattle, the pigs. But the barn is still there, the pens and… the silo." She paused a moment and then stated cynically, "I guess my sixty-five-year-old mother climbed up the ladder of the tower, opened the hatch and jumped into the filthy water below. The woman never took a bath in her adult life! It was always showers, she even refused to put a tub in when they added a master bathroom!" She looked from one brother to the other.

"So you don't think your Mom killed herself?" Sam asked again, carefully guiding his question.

She shook her head. "No." Blinking a moment, questions filling her head. "But if it wasn't that, what was it? She was forced to climb? She was pushed?" She swallowed hard. "My Dad, everyone likes him, you know? And he was good to us, but there were times…" she paused a beat and then, "We had all these wild farm cats and they'd have kittens and there was just so many of them. My Dad would put them in a sack and my Mom and my brothers and me, we'd all beg him not to kill them. But he'd drown them. He'd hold them under the water up in the silo while we'd scream at him from below. My Mom hated that. Why would she go…" she took in a last deep breath turning her chin over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I should get your order in. It's just… it's been a hard couple of weeks. My Mom, she passed a week ago and a couple of weeks before her, my Grandfather…"

"He died, too?" Sam finished.

She nodded.

"Your father's father?"

"Roger Rogers. Such a dumb name."

"Suicide?"

She shrugged at the younger hunter. "Animal attack?" It was an uncertainty. "It's still under investigation. I know it sounds crazy, but he appeared to… rip the skin off of his body. With his fingernails."

Dean lifted his eyebrows into inverted "V's" at his younger brother. Yep, sounded like their kind of crazy.

First stop had been to see Jolly Rogers. His farm was big, decaying from lack of upkeep, under-use, and age. A few years ago it was certainly in it's glory with livestock and smells of money masked by stench, but now it was barren. Looking sad. Dean pulled the Impala up the gravel road to park it outside of the broken down paint-chipped yellow farmhouse. They looked out into the yard, the pens were empty, but still fenced in, still locked. The barn was standing, it's doors shut and, over the hill was the silo. It stood alone like it belonged on a backdrop of a picture hanging above someone's mantel. White flecks of paint falling from its metal shell, the peak jutting tin pulling from the sides, curling on its ends.

Sam rapped on the screen door and waited patiently with his brother, the cold from the morning still hanging on, waiting for the sun to warm up enough to melt more snow. They could hear the shuffle of small steps coming towards them and they both straightened taller as a man began to form in the doorway. He was large, an obese stomach hung down in a hard mass towards his abdomen and into his lap. His face was round, his cheeks were overly plump and his eyes were glossy. He could have looked like Santa Claus if he had looked even remotely close to somebody named Jolly. Upon first impression this old man looked empty, but he didn't look surprised. Just like he'd been sitting, waiting for someone to come knocking on his door and take him from this…

"Jolly? Jolly Rogers?" Sam spoke first as the big man appeared.

He nodded. "Yep."

No fake ID's, no stories this time. "We've been staying up at your motel up the road and," the younger man started, "I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean," he gestured towards the older hunter. "And we, we met Clancy and heard about your unfortunate losses as of lately…"

"Mr. Tell told me to come by and say hi," Dean interjected.

Jolly's eyes blinked hard at the older brother. "What'd you say your last name was?" he barked, suddenly taking interest in one of them.

"Oh, uh…"

"Winchester." Dean answered proudly.

Jolly's eyes narrowed on the boys for a moment and then almost in a growl, he rasped out, "Mr. Tell didn't send you. John did."

Dean glanced up at Sam, who was staring the big man down. Confusion masking his features, his throat working hard to swallow at the sound of his father's name.

The door swung open and Jolly invited them in.

The place was cluttered. There was no place you could look that didn't have books piled on top of each other, clocks displayed together on table tops, magazines with torn edges toppling one another, dishes stacked in the sink, with a newly bought bottle of dish soap next to it and another bottle beside that one and another beside that. The smell hit the boys like they had walked into a garbage dump, which may have been what the house was. There was a spot on the couch cleared off for one person to sit and one space at the dining area where one person could eat. Jolly turned and gathered clothes off the table, pushing tins and mail off one of the chairs. He offered them to the brothers, trying to find a vacant space to put the wadded clothing from his arms. He finally stuffed them in a corner near an empty trash bin and turned back towards the boys.

"Need a drink?"

They shook their heads quickly in unison. "No."

The larger man smiled and stood between them. "You're his boys, ain't ya?" He grinned, a bit of a twinkle reflecting back to them in his eyes. "Dean and…" his fingers snapped a couple of times…

"Sam." he owned it, a bit disheartened.

The man nodded. "Yeah, the college boy."

Sam looked over at his brother. Dean was staring intently at the man. "How do you know our Dad again?"

Jolly's smile faded, his twinkle dimmed. "He didn't tell you? He didn't fill you in…"

"Our Dad's dead." Sam's voice was firm.

Jolly hung his head. "Oh, jeez, boys." That was all he could offer at that moment, his own fresh losses shining through him. Everyone. Everyone lost. No one was immune. It was inevitable.

"Jolly," Dean started, "is there something going on here? Something that we can help you with?"

Jolly turned from them and grabbed another chair, shaking from it the old telephone and shaving kit it was sheltering. He flipped the chair around and sat down, resting his grand forearms on the wooden back, his chin jutting forward. "Something's trying to kill me." He paused and then added, "But first, it's going through my family."

Dean nodded. "Do you know what it is?'

Jolly Rogers had an air about him, something that made you feel comfortable in his presence. He was easily liked, had been a happy man, he had lived in this town his entire life and everyone knew him. They all enjoyed the large teddy bear. He had been a farmer and a barber and the owner of the motel, the café. He even had other businesses over the years, all of them he'd sold when the time was right to move on. He'd funded the town every year to purchase their 4th of July fireworks. He loved his community and they loved him back. Until recently. "No, I haven't seen what it is, but I've heard it."

"What did it sound like?" The boys asked together.

He thought a moment. "I heard scratching, ruffling when it came for my father. He lived with my wife and I, we have an apartment downstairs that we kept for him. He died in the bathroom. He never even screamed." His eyes hazed over. "It had to have been quick, right?"

Dean's Adam apple bobbed. "Sure." It was what the man needed to hear just then.

"I didn't notice anything with my wife. I just woke up and she was missing."

Missing. That hit Dean. He'd known that feeling. Felt that before. Waking up, looking over to the bed next to you and finding… nothing. Waiting and… nothing. Calling and…

"I waited for her and she never showed back up. I tried her cell phone and she never picked up…"

Dean's mind rolled back, pushing it away, shoving it back. He looked at Sam, finding his brother looking back at him. _I had to do it, Sammy, cuz I couldn't live with you dead_. And now Sam was going to wake up and find Dean gone. Dean had returned the favor. It hit his gut like a wrench.

"The cops found her up in the silo. It took us until the next day to, discover her." He glanced out the window. "She hated heights."

Maybe he had killed the kittens, maybe his wife and children had screamed and begged him not to do it, but looking at the man now, the brothers felt the love, the bond, the regret.

"Jolly," Sam cleared his throat, "what about you? Why would something want you dead, and your family?"

The man's eyes flared up to the boys. "That's how I met your Dad. Almost four years ago he came here to help me out. I thought maybe I needed someone with his kind of expertise. I was afraid."

"Afraid of?" Dean gestured with his hand, it was a like coaching a child.

"I was on trial. About a year before, I would volunteer for the school, helping out with transporting the kids on field trips and such. I drove the school bus for them, took the kids back and forth to events. Not often, maybe a couple of times a school year. And then one morning we were on our way to the convention center, they were hosting a kids talent show. I was driving the bus around a curve and…" he stopped, thinking about that curve, the feel of the bus under his seat, the bounce, the pull of the wheel, "and I lost control of it. Careened off the shoulder, over the curve and went into the lake."

Dean and Sam remained quiet, imagining the yellow school bus full of children, suddenly submerged into harsh water.

"I got the emergency door open, there was another teacher there and we started throwing the kids out the back. It was early Spring and the water still had patches of ice. The water was freezing. We pulled every kid we could out of that damn bus until we just floated to the top ourselves."

"How many kids… did you get out?" Sam asked, focusing on the positive.

"Twenty-one." He nodded back, a wan smile. And then darkness. "But there were six that didn't make it out." He tilted his head back, remembering the cold. "Well, really there were five, but there was this sixth kid… he drowned in the water, but he wasn't in the bus… anymore."

"And you thought that was a problem our Dad could help with?" Dean squinted, it was a tragic accident, not unexplainable.

Jolly rubbed his hands on this thighs, the denim bunching up under his palms and then smoothing back out again from his own friction. "The lake, it seemed to come alive and swallow the bus or… something. Thought maybe it was haunted. I had to go on trial for homicide, reckless endangerment. I was scared and I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew your Dad. But I ended up getting acquitted. Your Dad never found anything, I was okay and didn't need him in the end."

Dean and Sam sat in silence with the older man, listening to the outside, the wind blowing the snow against the house. The branches clicking together in an odd rhythm. Sam swore he could hear his brother say something to him, something inside of him hurt right then.

"Mind if we take a look around?" Dean asked, slowly rising from the dinette.

Jolly Rogers obliged. He took them on a personal tour of the chaotic house. The basement was the worst, jumbled furniture pushed in corners, boxes upon boxes of stored memories throughout the years. Gifts given to the couple when they were first married, baby outfits their children had once worn, receipts for things bought in the 1970's. They had kept it all. There was a small apartment, though, that they had finished off for Jolly's father. It had only three rooms, a tiny living area, a bedroom and a bathroom, which was so small only one person could go in at a time. There was no bathtub, just the shower stall. That was where Jolly had found his Dad, dead slumped against the corner of the cement block, his skin torn from his body by his own hands. No weapons were found, no fingerprints of another, no forced entry, no bloody shoe prints leading from the scene of the crime. Couldn't have been suicide, though.

"Definitely unnatural." Dean observed, once Jolly had left the two to look around the small compartment. The EMF wasn't giving anything back, there was no sulfur, no ash, no prints of any kind.

"Maybe it was an animal," Sam came back, not able to think of anything else.

"An animal that can unlock doors and climb up ladders and push old ladies into a tower of water?"

Sam sneered at him. "I dunno, man." He was at a loss of words as well.

Dean glided his flashlight one more time through the shower stall before exiting the small bathroom. He suddenly stopped and stooped down, the beam of his light coming into contact with a shiny object stuck in the drain, almost washed down from cleaning the blood from the walls, the floor.

"What is it?" Sam asked, trying to peer over his shoulder.

Dean grasped a hold and pulled out a small metal object, pointed at the sides. He rolled it in his fingers a moment and then held it up to Sam. "A jack," he said and handed it to his brother.

Sam took it and looked at it in his palm. "Jacks? Like when we were kids?"

"Looks like it."

Sam frowned at it and stepped back so Dean could remove himself from the bathroom. Jolly's belly appeared half way down the stairs. "Want to go outside and look at the silo?"

The boys followed through the snow up the hill from the house to where the metal tower stood, nestled in the crook of a hill. It hadn't been used in years, Jolly explained on their way up. He had meant to have it drained, but had never gotten around to it. His wife hated the thing, thought they should just have it removed all together. Now he had wished he would have listened. Maybe he could have saved her precious life.

Dean walked up and grabbed hold of the ladder, shaking it under his fist. It wobbled slightly, but stayed attached to the exterior as it crept up to the top. It wasn't white like the rest of the silo, but now covered in rust, which chafed into crumbs in his gloves. The rungs that he could see didn't appear to be covered in any snow or ice, they seemed to be fairly dry.

"Well," Dean looked at Sam, motioning the ladder with his hands, "ladies first."

Sam gave him a look and threw down the small bag he'd been carrying, nicely concealing a flask of holy water and small weapons they might need in a tight bind. He reached up as far as he could and hoisted himself up the ladder, taking two rungs at a time. Dean clamored after him, his boots clumsily coming into contact with the iron underneath, feeling his body sway to and fro hanging on the ladder. With each step his younger brother made, the ladder seemed to squeak and rattle, dust and grit jostled down to sprinkle on top of Dean's hair. A mumbled curse came up from under Sam and he glanced down at his brother.

"What?" he shouted down.

Dean looked up. "Maybe only one of us should be on this ladder," he hollered back.

Sam shrugged. "Jump down. I can check it out."

Dean watched as his brother continued to ascend the silo, not seeming the least bit slowed by his recent lay-up in the badlands, fighting other creatures, having chest tubes in and removed. He moved quickly and gracefully, climbing like the web slinger. Dean took a step back down and jumped the rest of the way, landing near Jolly.

"Your wife climbed that, huh?"

Jolly watched Sam as he approached the top. "Yep. She weighed close to three hundred pounds."

Dean looked back up. No way that woman climbed that old ladder.

Sam reached the top and wavered a moment, his long legs perched on the highest rung, his lanky torso wobbling with nothing to balance him. He leaned towards the metal point and pulled on the hatch. Nothing. He reached back down, grabbing the handle firmly with his glove and yanked hard. Slowly the lid began to lift and with a scouring shriek it collapsed falling backwards. He brought his flashlight around front and peered down into the tower well, the water not far from the top, a couple of feet, close enough that when he reached over and stretched, his fingers could skim the murky water. The light shone on the water, eerily sparkling back at him. There were no markings on the inside that he could see, no marks on the outside, nothing on the front or bottom sides of the hatch. It looked clean, well, besides the wear and tear of being old and unused. He grunted and flopped back up, looking way, way, down to his brother and Jolly. He gave Dean a shrug and sighed loud enough they could hear him.

He climbed noisily back down the ladder, taking it as easy as he could, his boots slipping a few times, but easy enough to catch himself. He hopped off about four steps from the bottom and walked over to the other two, all of them perplexed as to what had happened on this farm in the past couple of weeks. Jolly Rogers invited them back in the house, but the brothers declined, sighting they had some work to do, research.

The doors shut with a hinged creek to the Impala and Dean started the engine up. He glanced over to Sam, beads of sweat appearing on his younger brother's brow. "Mrs. Rogers weighed like three hundred pounds, man."

The sounds of Queen flowed in through the speakers.

_She was such a naughty nanny, hey big woman you made a bad boy out of me…_

Sam looked over at him. "Dude." He took a glimpse back up at the silo as they poured down the driveway. "No way she climbed that ladder."

"Not naturally, at least."

_Fat bottomed girls you make the rockin' world go round._

Rays of sun peeked out as they drove back into town, Sam wanting to get to a library or records office where they could find out more about the bus accident, more about the Rogers family. More of what Jolly _wasn't_ saying. The North Sioux City Library was clean and small, well lit and the blonde, leggy Librarian allowed the boys to bring in coffee as they searched the internet and back newspapers. It didn't take either of them long to find what they were looking for.

"Yeah, okay, five years ago this March, Jolly was driving a school bus full of elementary kids to some show and he lost control, veered off and the bus rolled down an embankment, landing in a lake down off the highway." Sam pointed to his computer screen as Dean pulled out newspapers from that date, looking for obituaries.

"So, who died?"

Sam read on. "Aw, man." He shook his head. "Nine-year-old Katrina Hale, twelve-year-old Violet McBride, twelve-year-old Mary Kay Woods, ten-year-old Jack Danitz, twelve-year-old Matt Parkman and eight-year-old Bobby Parkman." Sam looked over to Dean, who had stopped fanning the newspapers and lifted his brows, inverted V's. Sam looked back to the screen, his voice softer. "Brothers?"

Dean started to shrug when the Librarian came up behind them, caught by the haunting remembrance on the computer glaring back at her. "The bus accident?" She looked at the hunters. "That's what you're researching?"

Dean cocked his head. "Yeah, for…class."

She bent in and looked at the picture of the bus after being pulled from the lake mapped on the screen. "It was so sad when that happened. I use to work in the school library during that time. I knew every single one of those kids. The Hale's were neighbors of mine and when Kat passed, it just wrecked their family apart. Her parents got divorced and her Dad moved away. Got remarried, I think."

"Do any of the other families still live around here?" Sam asked.

She nodded. "Yeah, I think all of them do, except for Kat's Dad. And the Parkman brothers. They just… that still breaks me."

"What?" Dean narrowed his eyes at her.

The Librarian's whole body sighed, her eyes grew softer, wetter, before she ever got the words to her lips. "They only had their Dad. I don't think I ever met him, he moved away after the accident. Their Mom was long gone before they ever moved here, I don't know if she died or just left, but those boys really were all the other had. That older boy, he was so good to his younger brother, always watching out for him. When they weren't in class, they were inseparable. I think their Dad left them alone a lot and they just adjusted to taking care of themselves sometimes…" she took a deep breath in. "But that day, the bus crashed and Jolly and Mrs. Post were tossing those kids out the back, they grabbed Matt and got him out but they couldn't get to Bobby. When Matt realized that Bobby wasn't out of the bus, he went back into the lake, back to the bus… and it was like the lake just took him, too. I wasn't there, but Mrs. Post said it was like it was waiting for him."

Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with two fingers. Sounded familiar. Two brothers, four years apart, Mom gone, raised by Dad when he was around. One brother not able to live if the other brother died. _If we're going down, we're going down together._ He stole a glance at Sam, who was staring at the computer, clicking on the school photos of the kids on another article.

"There aren't any pictures of the Parkman brothers." he directed back to the Librarian.

She shook her head. "Probably not. They were only there for a little while. Their Dad moved around a lot."

Sam turned to look at Dean. They both saw childhood memories flash between each other. Sam felt a heat radiate off his brother for a few seconds, felt something ache inside. Dean always showed Sam more than he told. Always. _More than familiar, maybe?_ "Can we get copies of these?"

The doors to the Impala shut in one synchronized motion from the brothers as they approached the room of their motel. Sam sat down on the edge of his bed, frown lines casing his face as his brother walked by, throwing his coat down on an empty chair.

"What do you think this is, man?" Sam asked.

Dean turned to him. "Some ugly mother, I guess. No signs of spirits, probably not an animal. Doubt it's a vampire…"

Sam shuddered. Probably too early to mention fighting the bloodsuckers just yet. Sam shrugged it off quickly. "Something has attached itself to Jolly, though. His family."

Dean nodded, he rested his back up against the wall. "Demon?"

Sam stared at the older brother. "Yeah. Maybe." _God, no. No more demons. He was getting tired of their species_. He watched Dean, his hands pushed against one another, his eyes darting from side to side in the room. "What?"

Dean shoulders heaved forward. He glanced for only a second at Sam. "I don't know, it's just… the brothers…"

"Kind of reminds you of somebody."

Dean locked his uneasy eyes with his brother's steady ones. "Yeah." He didn't need to say anything else, enough was said in that one word and Sam nodded back. Acceptance, understanding, truth. He knew.

"So, somebody probably summoned a demon?" Sam rested back on the palms of his hands, thinking. "If that's what it is…"

"Or controlling it. Jolly was acquitted of the accident. Somebody wanted revenge? Something man's laws couldn't give."

"Yeah, but it was just an accident, Dean."

His brother tilted his head. "A kid dies, somebody has to pay. A demon just sees death and pain, not right and wrong."

Sam nodded. "So, somebody unable to forgive."

"Somebody who wants the person to suffer first."

"Somebody who lost someone they really loved."

Dean reached up on top of the TV and pulled the copies of the accident they had gotten from the library, shuffling through them. "Talk to the parents?"

Sam gave him a small smile. "Who else?"

**Play List:** _Fat Bottomed Girls_ from Queen

**A/N:** Hey, thanks for reading. Glad you made it to the end of chapter one. The rest will be not as long, but only by a couple of pages. I have all but the last chapter written and I believe this will be completed in six chapters, like my story _Lost and Found_. Thanks for sticking it out and I guess we'll have to see what is in store for the Brothers Winchester! Reviews appreciated! Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Forgot to say, I will be posting a chapter every two to three days. I just have to finished the last chapter and tweak it – there should be six chapters in all!

**Chapter Two: Set the Scene**

The Librarian had been right. The Hale's had divorced and Peter Hale had moved away, down to Texas, fallen in love and remarried. He and his new wife had a one year-old-little girl now. Frances Hale had also remarried, only a few months ago, though, and she and her ex-husband shared custody of their son, Kat's brother, who was now the same age Kat was when she died. Nine. Frances Hale spoke with Sam and Dean, junior reporters for Court TV, about the devastation she experienced after the bus accident. She and Peter were already on hard times and the marriage would have probably dissolved with or without the loss of their daughter. It had been hard, though, really hard. And the two coped with losing their child very differently, Frances sobbing, going on various medications for depression, pining for her baby girl. Peter closing up, working more and starting an affair.

"I attended the trials every day," she said, an awful smile splashed on her face, "Jolly has always been so good to the town, he loved the kids, loved Kat. I never thought… never thought any of it was his _fault_. It was just a freak accident. Could have happened to anybody."

They sat in the Impala, Sam with a steno notebook, crossing off Frances and Peter Hale from the top of the list. "Frances seems okay with Jolly…"

"Yeah, and Mr. Hale seems to have found happiness again."

Sam's pen line darkened over the names. "Yeah."

"Next?"

"The Woods."

Alison and Mark Woods were still grieving for their lost little one. Mary Kay had been twelve and the youngest in their family, following her older twin brothers. Even the boys, now gone off to college, still felt the wounds left behind from the absence of their baby sister.

"We all loved her so much. _Love_ her. I think about her all the time. She's always in my thoughts." Alison talked calmly, her eyes searching the young reporters faces. "She was my baby."

"I wonder what she would be like today, you know?" Mark had pondered to the boys. "She was so smart then. She'd be a senior next year. What college would she go to? What would her life be like now?" He'd suddenly realized he'd been smiling and quickly erased it from foreign eyes. "What _our_ lives would be like now."

But the Woods had found their faith in God. Crosses flanked the walls, statues of Jesus were displayed in each room. They even had a stoup with holy water greeting their guests as they came in the house so they could bless themselves, if desired. Her remains were cremated and sat on a bookcase in a lovely angel-themed urn. They shared with the brothers how they prayed every night for their Mary, for each other, for Jolly. And they had forgiven him.

"The poor man. He got all those kids out and then had to be tried for the ones that he couldn't reach. I think about him every day, too. What he's been through since then. That day took so much from his life." Alison looked at Mark and they both shook their heads. "How do you go on after something like that happens to you?"

Sam flicked the Bic across the Woods' names when they reached the Impala. Dean climbed in next to him, turning the ignition over. "Where to, Hutch?"

Sam glanced down. "Laura McBride."

Violet McBride had been twelve-years-old when she had passed away in the bus accident. She was Laura McBride's first child, the only one with her high school boyfriend who had abandoned them shortly after Violet's birth. It had taken a little while, but Laura had found a way to keep living. She had a new husband now and had started a new family with him.

"I miss her. She was my best friend," Laura confided. "It was the two of us for so long and she was my whole life." She dabbed at her eyes with Kleenex, looking over to a small framed picture of Violet resting on her end table. "I think she would have enjoyed being a big sister. Nick and the girls have given me a second chance at life."

Sam scratched McBride off the list and turned his head to Dean. "Danitz." He answered before the question ever escaped.

"I just wish it would stop," Maura Danitz spoke quietly in her home, sitting on her worn floral sofa, with pictures of a young Jack smiling behind her. She was thin, too thin, her light hair pulled back in a ponytail, with loose pieces falling on her face. She fidgeted with her hands, her fingers wringing a worn-out dishcloth between them while they spoke.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"The pain. The missing. It just never stops." Her eyes glazed over the brothers, hazel and forgotten.

Mrs. Danitz and her husband, Lyle, thought their family was complete after the birth of their second child, a daughter, who trailed Jack by three years. A son, a daughter, a dog. Perfect. But that was before the accident and afterwards, they started trying again. Maura endured three miscarriages until she finally gave birth to a healthy baby girl. She'd thought it would help. Help the void between her and Lyle. Thought it would help complete the family again. But Lyle, who was a police officer and on duty at the moment, never got over losing his son. So Maura did the only thing she could - she got pregnant again and again until she gave birth to their daughter.

"I only did good once," she smiled as a blond headed sixteen-month-old little girl toddled into the sitting room, chasing an annoying yipping dog. She stopped to lean a chubby hand on Dean's leg, smiling up to him, showing him the few teeth she had. He smiled back, noting how her bright brown eyes gleamed up at him. She was a beautiful happy child, who just happened to not be a boy.

"I never thought the damn Yorkie would out live my son," Maura said drearily.

The doors shut on the Chevy and Dean stretched his arm across the back of the seat, resting it a moment. "Mr. Danitz?"

Sam circled both names. "Possibly. Maybe her?"

Dean huffed. Doubtful. "She's barely hanging on in there, dude. I doubt she can make a meatloaf let alone figure out the recipe to conjure up a demon."

Mrs. Clara Post had been the only other adult on the bus that day, a second teacher had driven separately to the convention center. She was in her sixties and this was her last year to teach, she was going to retire. The past five years had been hard on her, still nightmares of the bus, the water, the sinking and the screaming.

"We both threw the kids out. And then when the bus started to dip, I took the back, Jolly took the front. He would grab a student and crawl up the floor with the child hanging on to his shirt. One time he took two six year olds at the same time." She turned from her kitchen counter and set frosted brownies in front of the boys. Two forks. Two glasses of milk. They dug right in.

"Jolly has had it hard. Rough. In the night… sometimes I wake up and I'm still on that bus, but Jolly… I don't think he's ever gotten out. He's trapped. I've been so sad for him. One person can only do so much."

Dean shrugged after they reached the old Chevy. "She's pretty traumatized still."

Sam glanced over to Mrs. Post's front door. "I don't think it's here, though."

Dean rubbed his tummy. "Me, either. Damn, Granny could make some good brownies, though, huh?"

Sam laughed. Brownie making skills were apparently enough to not be conjuring a spirit or demon.

They had made a stop at the local records office and met a homely young blonde girl named Kelly who not only worked there part-time, but was also an Aquarius. She smiled bashfully when Dean blurt out, "Me, too!"

Kelly had Sam sit down and fill out the necessary paperwork to get access to the trial records of the Rogers case. He wanted it all - court reports, pictures, statements, every witness called, anyone who knew anything. And all that they had on the Rogers' murders… well, deaths, as well. Kelly explained it would take a few days to get everything together and then copy it all, but after the boys shared with her their winning smiles and Dean wondered what a pretty girl like her was doing Saturday night, she thought she could have it to them in a couple of days.

Dean pulled the Impala into the motel parking lot late in the evening, feeling his muscles tighten as another day was preparing to exit. He had quit counting his time left on this Earth in months and had now increased them into days. And this was ending number eighty-five. He'd wake up tomorrow and the first thing that would pop into his mind would be the number eighty-four. It was always only a few seconds in the early waking that he'd let himself realize it was a death count, then he'd look across the room and shrug it off. He was more than aware of the person there with him. Always with him. Sharing his life, sharing his room, sharing his pocket. All eighty-five days of it. And that always gave him the strength to push it back, blink, sit up and embrace a new day. One more day, because in the morning, the sun would come up. It always did. And his life now was about living in the moment.

But the night was harder to warm to, harder to smile at Sam, harder to hide his fears, harder to put on a mask. And he knew Sam felt it because he knew him in his heart. He was his family, the only true person in his life. The only person worth going through all this for. And more. Dean could feel the frustration, the anger, the panic building inside his little brother. Everything Dean had refused go through months before, was coming back two-fold for his brother. The older couldn't accept his brother dead, couldn't live without him, wouldn't see what he would become without Sam. And now all that he couldn't do, he had transferred into Sam's lap. Sam was stronger, he told himself. Hell, Dean couldn't last a whole day with his brother dead. Sam… would have to last the rest of his life without his. And Dean felt bad about that, he did. Especially at night, especially with Sam working so hard to figure out a way to bail Dean out of Hell. Clean up his older brother's mess. _You have to save Sam and if you can't save him, you have to kill him._ Dean closed his eyes, funny how those words had been lost somewhere in these past nine months. Like they never existed. Role reversal was not a fun thing to play when forever was the punchline.

"Is that Clancy still in there?" Sam's voice broke Dean's train of thoughts, peering in through the glass of the café.

The lobby was empty as Clancy leaned over the front desk counter, talking to another couple. She was showing them something on a clipboard when the brothers walked in the door. Dean noticed the café lights were off and the thought of jerky for dinner made him wince.

"Well, if it isn't the Winchesters," Clancy's tone a bit hard, a bit sarcastic. She waved a receipt from the previous night in Dean's direction. "Am I going to be getting a call from a Mr. Chavez in a month? Claiming he didn't stay here last night?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder in Sam's direction and then back towards the three others. "Well, he might complain he didn't stay here last night and tonight?" It was said as a sweet question, asking Clancy's permission to go along with the gag, break the law, just this once. Do it for him, his smile, his dazzling Winchester charm.

She threw the receipt back on the table and shook her head. "You could have told me."

Dean shrugged. "We didn't know your family knew about us… until we met Jolly."

Clancy nodded at the boys and thumbed towards the couple. "This here is my brother Josiah, his wife Minnie." The couple looked out, both in their mid thirties, Josiah tall and dark haired, like his sister, his wife a red head, striking green eyes. "I'm going on home. Got to see what my teenagers have done to the house." She gave a small smile. It was nice to see. "Josiah and Minnie can get you extra towels or whatever it is you hunters need extra of."

Before either brother could speak, Minnie had put a small stack of towels in Sam's arms. "Thanks," he responded. Clancy swished her hips by them, heading out into the darkening night. The couple now taking guard of the family business.

Josiah nodded towards the eatery. "You need to fix yourselves something to eat?"

Sam looked to Dean over the stacked towels. Dean wandered in. "Turkey or ham?"

"Ham."

The motel door was still propped open slightly when Dean returned. Sam was on the computer, searching sites, checking leads, nothing associated with the current hunt that was in their hands. Spare moment, soul saving mission underway. For the younger brother, it always came first, number one priority. But Dean could see from Sam's expression that there were no new leads from Bobby. Things were, well, cold.

"Something'll come up," Dean said to him, shutting the door with his foot. He put a to go container down on the table in front of his brother and reached over and shut the lid of the laptop.

"Dean," Sam started, but Dean pushed the computer away and inched the food forward. He sat in the chair next to the younger man, looking up with worn out eyes and unfolded his sandwich. He tapped the container in front of his brother with two fingers.

Sam looked down and opened the Styrofoam, taking his own sandwich out. He pulled back the paper and took a bite. Ham and cheese, plenty of mayonnaise, mustard, pickles and a couple pieces of lettuce. Just like Sam liked it. He stole a look across the table, seeing Dean with a mouthful of food, bulging at the sides of his cheeks. He grinned, forcing his brother to look in his direction. Sam held the sandwich up. Dean always knew how to make it all better without saying a single word.

"Thanks, man."

WWW

Dean hadn't quite fallen asleep yet, but he was in bed, his clothes off, the blankets pulled up past his torso. He tried his stomach, both sides, fluffing the pillows and now he was flat on his back. He closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind but he wasn't tired enough yet. Lately he had to be near passing out to get a good nights sleep. The clock blared 12:35 a.m., his eyes watching purposefully as it flipped to 12:36. Why wait until 6:00 a.m., the Hounds of Hell sure weren't going to. Dean decided to call it. Eighty-four days. 12:37 a.m. It was too early to try and sleep, he knew. The room was calm, save Sam and the flopping in his own bed. Dean stayed quiet, even though he suspected the younger wasn't sleeping, either. There was no rhythmic breathing patterns, his body was too restless, there were no moans, no nightmares. He listened as Sam seemed to get his feet tangled in the blankets (not the first time this night) and started kicking. Dean opened his mouth to say something when it happened.

The TV. It turned on.

Dean and Sam's head tilted up in their beds at the same time, looking at the screen as images distorted, coming into focus in front of them. Dean narrowed his eyes as the sight of Roma Downey and Della Reese appeared on the small screen. He blinked and looked over to Sam, who had his hand dropped casually behind his head and was staring, engaged, at the TV.

"Dude, what are you watching?"

Sam glanced over. "I'm not watching it."

"Well, turn the channel then."

Sam looked around. "I don't have the clicker."

They both bolted up in bed and swept the room with their eyes. "Over there, on top of the TV," Sam said. Dean followed his finger and his eyes landed on the remote control resting on top of the console.

"Duffel," Dean said, but Sam was already hoisting it up on to his mattress. He threw his brother the EMF reader and removed his glock, releasing the safety with a clean click. Dean raised to his knees sinking into the mattress, holding the EMF firmly in his hands. He quickly brushed to the left and the right, centering on the TV. Nothing. He stumbled out of bed and walked the room, checking the bathroom as Sam had did the same, turning on the lights as they went.

"Huh," Sam said, lowering his piece. They looked back over to the TV, _Touched by an Angel_ still playing. Dean walked over and reached out to shut it off. He paused a moment and then let his finger hit the power button. His body started suddenly shaking, his finger still on the knob.

"Dean!" Sam yelled and ran the small distance to his brother. Dean let go of the TV and turned back around, pointing his finger at Sam, a big grin on his face. Sam looked at him, anger and then disbelief. "You… faked?" Sam took in a deep, anxious breath. "Don't do that!" Dean turned around and started to get back into bed. Sam sat down on the edge of his mattress, swinging the gun onto the covers. He glanced over his shoulder. "Jerk."

Dean started to respond when the TV turned back on. This time Gregory Peck and Lee Remick appeared from the darkness. Sam grabbed the glock again and pointed it around the room. There was nothing that he could see, nothing he could sense. He paused a moment, not sure what he was waiting for and then reached over and turned the set off… again.

"Sam, that was _the Omen_," Dean hollered from behind, almost sounding irritated.

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. He rose from the bed and reached behind the dresser, pulling the television's cord from the wall. He sat back down and remained quiet for a moment. It didn't feel right, something felt off. But nothing happened. And the thought occurred that it must just be a fluke electrical thing.

He shrugged towards his brother as Dean threw him the EMF meter and Sam found a cozy spot for it in the duffel, along with his disarmed glock. He pushed himself back up in the bed and left the duffel at the end of the mattress, keeping it close by for good measure, peace of mind.

Dean sighed heavily. Still too early to sleep. And now, no TV.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam."

"Think there's something in the lake?"

Dean's eyes glided towards the other bed. God, he'd hoped not. Last time they dealt with a thing in a lake, it had attached itself to a family, too. He still hadn't quite gotten over that. He shook his head. "No, Dad would have found it."

Sam was silent for a moment. "But Jolly said Dad didn't find _anything_ here."

Dean nodded. "I know."

"But Dad always found what he was hunting for."

But he didn't always kill it. Some things he left for his boys to take care of.

"Maybe there wasn't anything here to find back then."

They heard the familiar sound of electric triggering and their heads lifted again. Brad Pitt slowly started to form, followed by Anthony Hopkins.

"What the…"

"_Meet Joe Black_," Sam interrupted. "Jess loved this movie."

There was something about the mention of Sam's dead girlfriend that made Dean leap to his feet, something about mentioning her name that made Sam grab the glock from the duffel again. They flicked the lights on and the boys looked around the small space.

"Shoot the TV?" Sam offered.

Dean thought about that one for a second. Sounded pretty good, but they were low on ammo, didn't need to waste the bullet. Dean had a different idea. He grabbed hold of the TV, Brad Pitt talking in a low, demonic tone, and marched it out of the motel room. Sam followed him down the sidewalk outside and to the lobby area where Josiah was sitting behind the desk, reading a book. Dean put the television on the floor and looked up at the dark haired man.

"Something wrong…"

"Demonic TV," Dean came back, pointing to the dark screen.

Sam came around and looked at it. "It shut off."

Dean looked at Josiah. "Brad Pitt fan?"

He shrugged. "I like _Seven_."

Dean smirked, gesturing to the small box. "Give it five minutes and make some popcorn."

WWW

After they had returned to the room and abruptly salted the window and under the door, sleep had finally met the hunters around 3:00 a.m. Sam fell asleep first, flat on his back, his arm cradled over his chest, Dean watching from the corner of his eyes. At night, his brother still looked so young, like the little Sammy he'd guided through life. His Sam. Dean had closed his eyes to the long breaths, in and out, from the opposite bed, keeping time with it, keeping his beat, slowing himself down, shutting his brain off. And it worked. The world spun behind his eyes and Dean found himself losing hold of waking reality…

_She never mentions the word addiction, in certain company. Yes, she'll tell you she's an orphan, after you meet her family_.

Sam's head rolled on his pillow, his head feeling heavy, groggy. He opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the music. "Dean?"

_She paints her eyes as black as night, now, pulls those shades down tight. Yeah, she gives a smile when the pain comes, the pains gonna make everything alright._

Sam sat up with a surge. "Dean!" his voice calling, not requesting, this time.

Dean pulled himself up on his elbows, jerking at the urgency in his brother's voice, his neck twitched towards Sam's bed and he saw the silhouette of his brother moving through the shadows.

_Says she talks to angels, they call her out by her name. She talks to angels, says they call her out by her name._

Dean pushed himself until he was sitting straight up in bed with Sam staring wondrously across from him. Both hunters brows were raised, both tired, both shaking their heads, both feeling a chill up their spine.

"Something's in here?" Sam queried, too tired to think of anything else.

Dean reached over and turned on the overhead lamp above the side table and quickly shut the radio off. He looked at the clock display, it blinked 12:00 a.m. in red mischievous numbers over and over again. "Or something wants to mess with us."

"Wants us to know… that it knows we're here?"

Dean met Sam's eyes and saw a hint of alarm trickling through. This wasn't the first time he'd seen the look and lately and it seemed to be mirroring back to him more than he'd like. He watched as Sam blinked, his hands tremored, and a nervous energy seemed to emit from his skin. It wasn't just about the race with the clock but something else. Something that was on the inside, something that was keeping him awake at night, something that he was mentally keeping in check. Keeping from his brother.

"A trickster?" Dean's voice was soft, not wanting to throw it out there.

Too soon. Sam closed his eyes_. God, no. Not again_. He felt his dinner rise back up into his throat almost immediately, tasting bitter and sour, knowing the green-yellow mixture was going to make a reappearance of chunks all over the bedspread. _Dean shot. Dean smashed. Dean crushed. Dean bleeding. Bloody. Gasping. Dead. Sam wake up. Repeat_. His face paled and Sam felt the room spin, he tried to swallow the nausea swarming inside, force it back down, but his stomach was leaping into his throat.

"Sam." Dean placed his hand on his younger brother's knee and squeezed.

He was back. The room stilled, the swaying slowed, the nausea started to settle. He looked at his brother and tried to focus.

"Sam," the older Winchester's voice was soothing, "I'm not dead. I'm right here." He breathed, giving his words a couple of seconds to register and then added, "And it's Thursday."

Thursday. Okay. That was something Sam could grasp, something he could hear, something he could accept. Dean was real. He blinked his blurring eyes and looked down, allowing them to dry. He gave Dean a quick nod. Thursday. Not Tuesday. Not Wednesday. Dean was alive. For now. For eighty-three days, twenty hours, two months, and four seconds.

'Cause Sam had been counting, too.

Dean felt his brother relax, saw the strain lift behind his orbs, felt his muscles under his hand soften. He gave Sam a small smile and patted his knee, withdrawing his own hand back to himself.

"STOP!" The scream came from outside the room. It was short, quick and lingered with desperate need.

The brothers jumped up, each grabbing a piece from the duffel as they headed for the entrance of their room. Dean reached for the doorknob and pulled harshly, but silently, swinging his gun to the left and the right before they exited the room together. Stepping out into the early morning cold, their bare feet hit the freezing concrete and shot an icy sensation from their heels to their temples. Both brothers were dressed only in their boxers and t-shirts, not quite prepared for a pre-dawn stroll. Dean proceeded to lead the way as they made their way down the sidewalk of the motel.

"NO!" It was louder now. A woman's scream. High, shrill, shrieking. "PLEASE!"

Sam's body started a slow tremble, beginning with the chattering of his teeth and running the length of his arm, finishing in the shake of his glock. He brought his left hand up to help steady himself as he followed behind Dean, his brother moving easy, stealth, a seasoned hunter. They approached the swinging glass doors of the front lobby and both could easily see the blood splattered on the glass. Dean cinched to the side of the building, feeling the wood siding rubbing up against his back, breaking away in bits and pieces. He pulled Sam back from the sidewalk, closer to him, against the siding. His left arm holding him back at the chest in a strong hold. _Watch after Sammy. Protect Sammy_. They crept to the door and Dean turned first, his gun guiding him as his body followed in one swift motion. He kicked the door in and the brothers entered as carefully as possible, Dean to the left, Sam to the right.

There was blood everywhere. The boys felt their feet saturate into the carpet upon contact, sinking them into the gory mess. Josiah and Minnie Rogers were still in the room, Josiah still at the front desk where the brothers had last seen him. The book he had been reading was still there, too, clouted with hues of crimson, the title _Angels and Demons_ punched in the background. Just this time, Josiah no longer held it. His trunk was slumped across the counter, blood oozing from his neck, spilling out onto the thirsty carpet below. His hands were removed, pieces of both scattered throughout the lobby. Minnie was a bit harder to place. Her torso laid fully clothed near the cafe, her right leg and pelvis had been thrown next to the vending machine, and her left leg was close to her husband.

The boys' eyes soaked in the scene, the scarlet leaking from the bodies… and the body parts. The red was smeared on the walls, ostensibly painted on with a large fan, textures layered on the plaster. Twelve inches of Minnie's intestinal tract was strung out in front of the hunters as they took steps forward, a sloppy sponginess rushing up to spout between the spaces of their toes. Muscles, tissues, fingers, eyeballs, brains. They were all present and accounted for.

Sam stopped abruptly and reached out, tugging on Dean's t-shirt. His older brother took a hard glance behind his shoulder and followed Sam's repulsed gaze to the far wall, behind the desk counter. There, stapled, almost mounted on the wall hung the heads of Josiah and Minnie. Their eyes gouged out, blood still freshly dripping from their necks, their hair stringy, bloody, sticking to the plaster they now graced and clinging to their cheeks.

Fruuummpp.

The brothers heard it at the same time and their heads snapped to the left. Their sight traveled quickly to a small hallway off of the main lobby. There was a definite sound, a ruffling, flurrying rapidly like there was a bird trapped in a small compartment, wounded, unable to take flight. Dean turned rigidly in the direction of the ruckus, Sam taking his back as they ascended into the hallway. The sound suddenly stopping, as though, whatever it was, knew it was being closed in on. As though it was smart.

They turned simultaneously to the right and with Dean's barefoot, exploded into a small linen room, two hands coming out sweeping the room with their pieces, scanning corners, checking behind doors. White towels, white sheets, white pillowcases filled their eyes. The wind filled their ears. A small window off to the side of the room was open, sporting a trace of blood smeared on the sill, scraping against the grain in a pretty fanned texture. Both hunters ran to the opening and looked out. The window led to the back of the motel, their eyes followed a large eight-foot drop-off underneath the outside pane. A person escaping would have picked this as a poor exit, having to jump and then take off in a dead run. But from their standpoint, they could see nothing. No one. No signs of a getaway. Whoever it was, whatever it was just… vanished.

Sam leaned over the sill, looking at the wood, checking for more blood or sulfur, some sort of indication of what they could be dealing with. It was difficult to see against the dark of the morning, and he leaned further, his long trunk falling fast towards invisible forces. He abruptly felt his body teeter a moment, his arms coming out suddenly from his sides, thrashing in mid-air, his glock falling easily from his grasp down to the ground below. He reached out to grab hold, anchor himself to something, but found his hands slamming against the side of the building, running down the wood planks, his fingers taking chunks of siding out as his body dragged further out the window.

"Easy there, baby," Sam heard Dean's voice call down to him, his hands reaching out, grabbing at Sam's t-shirt, yanking on his brother's shoulders, balancing him back into the room, safe. With Dean.

Sam took in a deep breath - wobbly and jiggly - but a deep breath. He glowered back to the open window and put a quivering hand up to his forehead. He shared a glance at Dean. "It felt like…" he blinked hard, swallowed harder, "like someone was pushing me out. Or pulling me out."

Dean stayed close, hung on to Sam's shirt a little longer, doing what he could to keep him alert in the here and now. "Just me in here, Sammy, and I don't think I was playing tug of war with anybody out there."

"Huh." Sam panted and then looked at Dean, his eyes dubious. "Did you… did you call me baby?"

Dean startled, he dropped Sam's shirt and backed away, his eyes gliding to the left. "No." Almost embarrassed, his cheeks flushing a little. "I said… baby brother."

Sam nodded, not reassured with the answer, but it didn't matter. He smiled a little, and they walked out of the tiny room together. Back into the nightmare of _The Jolly Rogers_.

WWW

They had called 911 and reported the scene. The officers had called Jolly. Jolly had called Clancy and within the half hour the motel was swarming with lights, police and coroners. It was the same players, just different roles. This time there was a grieving father, a grieving sister and Jolly's youngest son, Timothy had shown up now. A grieving brother. Dean and Sam met him briefly, he was a quiet man, out celebrating his thirtieth birthday that night. He had needed the drink. With the loss of his Grandfather and Mother he hadn't been much in the mood for anything lately, but a bunch of his buddies had taken him out for a good time. Until his cell phone rang. Kind of put a damper on things, he told the boys. It was clear to him that none of the Rogers clan were safe.

The brothers retreated back to their room, bouncing things off one another, trying to make sense of what they were dealing with, why this family, how it was working. Clancy was the oldest so it wasn't using chronological age. And it had taken Minnie out as well so it wasn't working strictly through bloodlines. So, Sam concluded, it must be working by utter convenience.

Jolly had stopped by to see the boys on his way back to the farm. The police were going to stay, stake out the motel, keep an eye on his family until things started to come together in their investigation. Well, now, investigations. As far as the cops could gather, Josiah and Minnie had been killed with a sharp blade like an axe or a sword of some kind. _Well, yeah_. Everything was covered in blood. Covered in gore. The room smothered with their internal body parts. _Yeah, they'd kinda caught that_. Oh, and Jolly reminded the brothers in a hoarse voice, his son and daughter-in-law were dead. _And we didn't stop it, didn't catch that one right under our noses._

The only thing that seemed to come out of the massacre unscathed was a statue of the Virgin Mary, found tucked under Josiah, Jolly had explained. Which he thought was odd as it didn't belong to him or the motel and Josiah and Minnie hadn't attended church in, well, forever.

"Has to be a demon," Dean concluded, after the big man had departed. "Attached itself to this family."

"But no sulfur, no traces?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe it just cleans up after itself when it's finished."

Sam wasn't so convinced. "We still need to check out the Danitz family. Maybe he's got a black alter or something hidden in the house." He was hopeful, hopeful they could figure it out soon and get the hell out of Dodge.

And they looked. They took off right after they showered and dressed, skipping breakfast. They ran over the entire house in the light of day. Maura Danitz had taken the older daughter to school and the boys had entered the house, quietly, Lyle apparently had already left for work. They scaled the ranch style home quickly, looking for anything to suggest demonic rituals, activities, readings. The main floor came back clean and they headed to the basement. Typical, unfinished, brick walls, cement floors, laundry area. No alters, though. No hidden rooms or trap doors. Besides a card tucked in Mrs. Danitz's underwear drawer for a women's shelter, the house checked out fairly normal.

"Not it," Dean announced, rubbing his eyes as they climbed into the Impala.

"I don't know, maybe he's keeping it somewhere else…"

"Not it, Sammy." Dean took another look at the house. "Cross it off. It's not the parents."

They checked the lake as well. It was still frozen from the long Winter that South Dakota was experiencing, but they walked the perimeter, scanning with the EMF, checking for symbols or irregularities. They came up empty handed. The guardrail from the rolling school bus was still broken after all these years. Rusted metal still bent back, jagged edges hanging over the cliff's edge, almost resembling a mouth when the boys stopped to look up at it from the rim of the water. A corroded memorial frozen in time.

"Not the lake." Dean slammed the car door.

Sam stared, head shaking, flipping through their Dad's journal. "He has this place plotted on maps. There's always been lots of different activity around this area, but he doesn't mention much about his hunt here."

"Probably because there wasn't much worth mentioning."

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "But what is it?"

Dean paused, looking back at the curve Jolly had lost control on, thinking about the lake swallowing up the last boy. "If it's not a demon and not a… trickster," he dropped his voice on the last word and took a breath, "then maybe, vengeful spirit?"

Sam thought about it. "Think there'd still be signs of it."

Dean turned the Chevy's engine on, her body rumbling under them. "I don't know. But we know who it's going to go after."

Clancy had been divorced for over ten years and had two children, a girl and a boy, seventeen and sixteen, respectively. She and her ex-husband shared custody of them, he lived a few miles to the East in the next town. Josiah and Minnie had been married for three years and hadn't found the good fortune to have children of their own yet. And now, the family thought they were all better off without the extra burden of another life to worry about. Timothy Rogers was married. His wife, Sophie, was a spitfire of energy. She was in her mid twenties with long blond hair, crisp blue eyes, and hot anger that came fast and left even faster. Dean and Sam interviewed her briefly, Dean took an immediate liking to the girl. She did not care much for Tim's family, though, and she chose to keep an arms distance from them. With the recent activity of people dying, this was even more reason for her to want to stay away. She and Timothy had no children and neither had planned to change that. Life was too short, too fun to muck it up with baby diapers and drool.

The entire Rogers' family was on high alert now and with the offer of protection from the police, they did feel somewhat better. Clancy was nervous, scared for her children and had left the motel with an officer to be sure they were safe and would remain that way. Jolly refused to stay, he had to be home, had to sleep in his own bed. Had to be away from his kin, not wanting to be near if another was lost. He couldn't hear another sound. A cry or a scream would do him in.

Timothy and Sophie thought they would stay in the motel that night. They would have to come back and help tomorrow anyway. Jolly would need help cleaning up, helping investigators, helping with funeral plans. Again.

"I think Sophie's letting her guard down," Timothy had told the Winchesters. He'd hoped she could help him through this tragedy, to cope because in all honesty, the guy was broken up. "My Mom and my brother." He was teary eyed, sometimes sobbing as he spoke. "Josiah was my best friend. Ever since I was a kid. And now what do I do?" He looked up with a wet, pleading face. "He's gone."

Sam swayed. He'd just been there, just last month. For six unreal, unbelievable, pretend months. He lived his life without his best friend, too. Saw what his world would be. Lonely and hard. He nodded at the man, feeling a slight pull inside of him because if he didn't figure something out real damn quick, he was going to be there again. Only this time, for real. And forever.

Dean suggested it would be best for Timothy and Sophie to get a room next door to the them, which was fine with the couple as it was the biggest room the motel offered. They all thought if they kept close, they could keep safe. They also had the help from the local law enforcement, with a cop perched outside the door. It should help everyone sleep through the night. Timothy and Sophie thanked they boys and departed together, taking the room to the Winchester's left. Tim knocked on the wall when they were inside as a playful hello, Dean giving them a pound back. Cheap motels. Thin walls.

Dean and Sam sat on their beds, feeling the night rest on their shoulders. This was going to be an easy one to succumb to. Three hours the first night, two hours last night. They were due a good nights sleep. Dean stood up, walked over to the clock radio and looked down at it. It aggravatingly blinked 12:00 a.m. back at him. He reached over, yanked the cord and marched it to the door. The knob turned in his palm and he sent the radio flying, flinging it past the police officer and crashing it onto the cement outside. The cop barely looked up. He crept back over to the bed and placed his watch on the table, they could just rely on that for the duration of their stay.

Sam laid in bed, feeling his body sink into the lumpy mattress, trying to find a groove his long body could fit into. "Still think it's a demon?" he murmured as he started to fall asleep.

Dean smiled. No wonder the kid had nightmares. "Without a doubt, Cagney."

And they fell into the dark fast, REM catching up where it had left off, cascading them to dreams they hadn't known before. Beautiful, restful, sunny, and bright. At different times during the night, smiles even occurred on hopeful faces in quick eclipses of sweet memories and sugary futures. Bodies relaxed, breaths in tune, hearts beating, trusting the other with… all they were willing to reveal. Trusting the other with their life. And maybe even more.

But then, they came.

**Playlist:** _She Talks to Angels_ from the Black Crowes

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the reviews! Hope you enjoyed the read!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your stark raving mad reviews! I love them! You guys are great! I think this is my favorite chapter. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Three: The Joker is Wild**

They came quietly, softly, their wiry legs tapping the frigid cement, nudging themselves under the motel door and squeezing their soft bodies underneath to touch the worn carpet on the other side. They worked diligently past the salt lines, creeping, splitting into two groups and then climbing up the red and blue bedspreads to where milky white flesh lay warmly sleeping. Unsuspecting.

Sam was dreaming about someone. Jess. No, make that pleural. Dean was there, too, and Mom and Dad. Dad looked so happy, so proud. They all did. Sam wanted to go to his Dad, wanted to show him. Show him that he was still here, still Sam and nothing else. He hadn't turned into something that he would have hunted. Killed. Salt and burned. He wanted to show him that he'd been wrong about him. Maybe there was demon blood in him, but there was something stronger, something Dad hadn't counted on. Winchester blood. He took a step forward and then felt a prick. He looked down on his right arm and noticed a small bleb of blood seeping out towards him. Sam frowned and then felt another prick and more blood. He looked up and saw that Jolly had entered the room with Clancy and Timothy. They stared at the younger man with sullen, empty eyes. All except for Tim, he was staring heartbreakingly to his side. They weren't at all happy like the fake Winchesters. But, someone was missing…

Sam sat up abruptly, his mouth open ready to scream out. Scream the name. It was on the tip of his tongue, but his voice seized on him, his throat closed. His breath left and came back in harshly, his head swam from the dizziness and then he achingly focused to the darkness of the room and thick realization of where he was.

He glimpsed over and saw the rise and fall of his brother's chest in the next bed and his heart rate started to calm. His eyes shifted to the small table between the beds but then he remembered Dean throwing the damned clock radio out the door. He sighed, not sure of the time and grabbed Dean's watch to take it to the bathroom with him. He shut the door and flipped on the light. A dim flicker returned back to him. 5:35 a.m.

Sam flinched. _What the Hell?_ His eyes shot up his arm and focused on a mole… that moved. He reached down and tried to flick it off his inner forearm, the back half rising, but the rest stayed attached and pinched at Sam's skin. He brought his fingers together and squeezed the creature, pulling it off, taking part of his skin with it. His eyes broadened. A wood tick. His eyes flew to the mirror and he stumbled back a moment, his body, scattered in brownish spots, covered in the little suckers. His hands came up and started blindly slapping at them but they stayed fixed, their heads buried deep into him. He pulled one off and then another, throwing them into the toilet, watching as they tried to swim to the porcelain. He flushed with a curse and then looked at the sink. Matches, lighters. He had to torch them.

"Dean!" Sam yelled as he ran back into room. Sam raced over to the wall, turning on the overhead lamp. Dean's head rolled. "Dean!" Sam reached out with his large hands and shook his sleeping brother violently.

Dean's body turned proficiently, defensively. He looked up to Sam and slighted his eyes.

"Ticks!" Sam screamed. "We're covered in them!"

Dean looked down into the bed and saw the dark parasites hanging off his skin. "Oh, God." He threw the sheets back and jumped off the mattress.

Sam had grabbed his brother's ZZ Top lighter and was crumpling the motels notebook paper in his hand. He grabbed the trash can and opened the front door. "Outside, now!" he ordered the older Winchester.

Dean was just starting to pick the ticks off, looking up from the forcefulness of Sam's voice, he instantly obeyed.

The dawn air was cold again. It was also murky, the morning sun, getting ready to rise in a few minutes. The boys ran out into the parking lot and lit the paper on fire, Sam tossing it into the wastebasket. They both started madly pulling the ticks off their bodies, pitching them into the fire one after another. Sam tugged his shirt off and started clearing his chest, reaching around to his back as best as he could. He turned around. "Did I get them all?" He hollered over his shoulder. He felt his brother's fingers way up on his shoulder blades, upper back, neck. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine times.

Dean yanked his own shirt over his head and Sam twirled around, removing the scroungers from his back as Dean worked on his front.

They stopped picking. And started spinning. One brother would twist and twirl, while the other made sure they were gone and then they'd switch. Sam's long fingers repeatedly ran through his hair, shaking the brown mop for any additional scurvies he may have missed. Dean's hair was easier to case. A few picks and a spiky flick through and his head was declared clean. They stood side-by-side, chests heaving for a few seconds, blood drops spilling down their bodies.

All gone.

"Something is messing with us, man," Dean snapped. "Something knows we are here and is trying to, I don't know, distract us."

Sam rested his right hand on his hip and tried to let that absorb. Dean had thought demons could have been targeting them back at the jail, maybe he was right. Maybe they had Supernatural markers out on their heads. His fingers rubbed up against the fabric of his boxers and an idea suddenly dawned on him. He looked down at his waistband. "Oh, shit." The younger brother stole a quick look at the older and slowly, shakily he pulled out his boxers and looked down.

Dean leaned over, peeping over into the open area. "What?"

"I forgot to look for ticks… you know, down here." It looked okay. He reached his hand in and felt around, moving his junk to the left and the right and a quick swish up the back then looked at Dean. He nodded.

Dean took a breath, hesitating. He grabbed hold of his elastic and took a peek, reaching in his hands feeling down, cupping around, and then started to back out when his hand stopped. He pulled the waistband out harder and looked down for a better view. His eyes guided uneasily over to Sam and rested there, his head tilting to the side.

Sam felt color hit his face. "Dean." Even his voice flinched.

Dean looked back down. His lips flattened and his eyebrows pushed together, tenting up over the bridge of his nose. "Goddammit." He felt his breathing hitch, his heart rate quicken and the ground started to feel very far away.

Sam watched him a few seconds, wondering if he should offer to lend a hand, but knowing the answer to that one. He shifted his weight under him, the morning not feeling so cold anymore. "Which… which ones, man? Twig or berries?"

Dean didn't even bother looking up. "Vlad the Impaler."

_Oh_. Sam nodded. Should have known it'd have a name like that. He cleared his throat. "Just yank it off, real fast. Like a band aid."

Dean shot him a glare. "Yank it off? Seriously!" He looked back into his boxers and took in a deep breath. He winced as he reached his right hand back in, grabbing the tick near it's head and gave it a hard pull. A fine sheath of skin ripped off as the parasite was forcefully disengaged and Dean watched as blood started to trickle down. He lifted the larger soft-bodied creature onto his fingers and chucked it into the trashcan, the fire starting to die out. It snapped and sparkled as it met contact, a small flare reaching up to tend it's victim.

Sam watched Dean intently as his Adam's apple bobbed. He started to sway, his body rocking right to left, the bright red blood fresh on his fingers. Dean closed his eyes, swallowing down the rising churn from his stomach.

"You're not going to be like that kid in Stand by Me and faint now, are you?" Sam teased, but with a hint of soberness underlying it.

Dean bent forward, his hands resting on his knees. "Sam, I don't faint." He rubbed sweat off his brow with the end of his t-shirt. "I puke."

Sam nodded. He thought about putting a hand on his brother's back as he was about to hurl, but then had second thoughts about it. "Okay." He turned away as Dean started to heave and directed his stare back towards the motel. Warm rays were just starting to peek out through the clouds, the dark sky lightening up the parking lot, the face of _the Jolly Rogers_ waking to a new day. Specifically, for the brothers it was day eighty-three.

Sam took a step away from his brother, walking in the direction of the sidewalk, back towards their room. "Where's the cop?"

The boys had been so busy knocking little vultures off their bodies they hadn't even noticed the lack of law enforcement at their next-door neighbors step. "Dean! The cop – he's down!" Sam ran the distance to the uniform clad figure crashed on the cement. The officer had his iPod on, the earphones still in his ears, music still playing. Sam reached down and felt his neck. "Just knocked out, he's alive!" he called back to his older brother, who was jogging back, dry-heaving at the same time.

"Get a gun," Dean spat out.

Sam turned on his heels to their room. The door was shut tight, locked from behind, neither had a key on them. The brothers felt a sudden chill, dressed only in their boxers and t-shirts. Déjà vu of the night before.

Dean approached the door next to them and pounded on it with his fist. "Tim! Sophie!" He waited a few seconds and pounded again. "Timothy! Open up! It's Dean!" When there was no response, Dean motioned to Sam. "If it's in there, it can only go out the front or the back. You swing around that way." Dean reached over the officer and pulled out his gun and club. "I'll climb in the front window." He swung the club back and smacked it against the glass, the window breaking into shards of glass. He threw Sam the gun and motioned with his head for Sam to go around the building. Dean reached down and fumbled the officer out of his jacket, flanking it over the windowsill, protecting himself from broken glass as he pulled himself into the Rogers' room.

"Tim? Sophie?" He called out. And he got a muzzled answer.

Fruummmppp…

Sam shuffled against the motel's walls as he made his way to the back of the building, his legs moving in long strides, the .45 clutched in his hand. He approached quietly, his feet coming into contact with both grass and snow, the cold snaking up to his heart.

It was a funny feeling he had as he graced the wood siding, the cold creeping up his body. His brother, his Dad would get a shiver, a shudder down their spine, a chill and shake it off. Sam felt the cold come up into him, looking for places to hide, settle, nestle in. And he had to fight against it. Even while hunting something down in the South Dakota winter. He closed his eyes as he hit the back of the building, rapid flashes of his dream playing back for him. Whether he found this thing, whatever it was, killed it or captured it, the one thing Sam knew for sure was what Dean was discovering inside.

Dean clamored his legs over the windowpane and hopped onto the carpeting below. His eyes fixated immediately. Timothy was bound, blindfolded and gagged in the shoddy motel chair. The hunter easily noticed the restrained man trying to suck in air, squirming against the ropes, crying through the gag. He leaped to Tim and pulled the scarf from around his eyes, looking behind him, baton in hand ready to strike. He ripped the cloth from his mouth…

"Sophie…" Timothy breathed.

Dean looked back over his right shoulder. She wasn't there. Not in the unmade bed, not in the other chair. Dean walked to the rear of their room and noticed the back window was open and the bathroom door was shut. He gripped the club in his hands and reached over, checking the knob. It turned effortlessly in his palm. He swung the door open and found Sophie.

Sam veered himself around the back of the building, the gun guiding his way. His sight caught a quick glimpse of the open window and he turned his head to the right, a hill projecting down, a small wooden area at the bottom and then another hill sloping up. Snow caked the area, his feet were already numb from the exposure. He looked down for a trail, the sun hitting the back of the motel now, light cascading the back field. Nothing. No foot prints, no tracks. Sam started walking down the incline, scanning the small treed area. His feet snapped twigs and branches and he cursed under his breath as the bottom of his soles pierced into sharp rocks and buried thorns. He reached the bottom and looked towards the next hill, starting towards it to check what was on the other side. There was a ruffling behind him and Sam stopped. He brought the pistol inward, hugging it close to his body and swung around.

Fruummmppp.

Sophie Rogers hadn't much cared for her husband's family. The recent deaths had scared her, terribly. But the previous day, she had agreed to help them, help try and get the family back on track. For her husband, of course, because he had lost his Grandfather, his Mother and his brother. And Sophie wanted to be there for the man she loved, wanted him to know that even if she didn't care much for his family, that she could put her feelings aside and be there for him. Because that was what you do when you get married, it is part of the price you pay with your vows. But Sophie's price was much higher. And she paid for it dearly.

Dean sunk to his knees when the bathroom door swayed opened. Sophie was in the center of the cream tile, pieces of her hair pulled out of her scalp by her own hands in bright bloody chunks. Her eyes ghost red, wide and bulging out of their sockets, hanging by threads of connective tissue. Her heart shaped lips were sunken in, blackened, charcoal and crusty. All the blood inside of her was spilled onto the floor, overflowing into the grout, rushing up to meet the wall trim.

Dean felt a sudden rush of energy leave him as his eyes cased the crime scene. He shook his head, trying to put pieces together, trying to make sense of these horrors when a rhythmic movement shot his head up. His sight rocketed to the other side of the toilet. A black figure, moving gracefully, muscles jumping was hidden behind the base of the stool. Dean shifted his weight back and pulled his boots in under him, raising his body up, the baton hoisted back against the flat of his shoulder. He leaned in as best he could, peering over the white lid and saw a large, fat, black cat lapping up the bloody liquid around it's feet.

Dean swallowed hard. He grimaced at the sight. Sophie's cat, maybe? "Hey… no, no, Sylvester.."

The feline twitched and it's head snapped up to meet the older Winchester. It's eyes amber-yellow, it's pink nose and mouth tainted in Sophie's rouge.

"Did you find her?" Dean heard Tim's voice squeal out.

Dean nodded, even though he knew he couldn't see him. There were no words to explain this.

Sam swept the small wooded lot with his eyes, the gun away from him, held taught and firm in his right hand. The morning sun was peeking over the motel now, casting shadows down rubbing against shrubs and trees. He had to squint to make out patterns, figures that were in front of him. He had heard a sound, heard ruffling but there was nothing in front of him. He started to walk again though the thicket of woods, feeling his soles opening up from the Earth below, leaving small drops of blood as he walked, mixing in with the trickle of red still flowing from his limbs. He walked under a large oak tree and his eyes could now see to the end of the wooded lot. Still coming up empty handed, though, no animals, no signs of life, natural or super. That's when his ears deceived him again. Only this time it was much louder.

**Fruummmppp!**

Sam's eyes blasted up scaling the tree, his head arching back, turning upwards into the thick of branches above. Leaves still attached in areas, dead and new, sparingly positioned, making it hard to see against the early light of morning. He could see a branch rattle and something seemed to move. Sam backed away from the trunk, .45 aimed, ready to fire, pointing up, watching for…

He stopped. He stared. And it stared back.

It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt much longer. The creature stood on its legs - human legs. Its owned a small lean muscular body, dark in skin and it's face was contorted but skilled, chiseled. It's eyes were dark from where Sam stood and it sported a smooth, bald head. It looked down at the younger man and then it turned calculated and jumped from the tree, spanning it's large black rubber-like wings and flew methodically away.

Sam never fired one shot.

Dean staggered back into the room where Timothy sat, bound, and reached for his cell. He called 911and reported an emergency at _the Jolly Rogers_. They already had police officers there, the operator informed him. Did they need an ambulance? Dean thought of Timothy and the unconscious cop slumped outside. Yeah, they'd better send one.

Dean focused back to the problem at hand. The blood, the dead body, the cat, the frantic husband. He began to untie Tim from the chair.

"Sophie!" he screamed. "Sophie! I'm coming!"

Dean helped the man stand and then forcefully blocked his way from racing the distance to the bathroom.

"Let go!" Tim yelled, shoving against Dean. "I need to get to Sophie!" He cried, shoving Dean left to right. "It's okay, honey! I'm here!"

The hunter held his ground, planting his bare feet in the carpet and pushed back, tugging the man towards the door of the motel. His hands were palmed forward, firm, but gentle.

"No," Dean said, carefully, "Tim, you can't help her."

It didn't register, though and he finally pushed by Dean and headed to his wife. Dean felt the heaves reoccur when he heard Tim's gut-wrenching scream for his wife. The door flew open behind him and the police fell into the room as Dean stumbled back into the cold of the South Dakota morning, dripping in his own sweat, his t-shirt clinging to him, freezing his skin. He turned from the sidewalk and started throwing up again.

"Dean." Sam's voice. Sam's hand.

Dean glanced up.

"Dean?" A question this time and Dean knew what was to follow.

He shook his head. "Sophie."

"It got Sophie?" Sam was crouching down on his back legs now, face turned up towards his brother's. He pushed Dean up by his shoulders, helping the older to regain himself upright. "Just her?"

Dean screwed us face and nodded. "Not Tim. Tim's okay." He almost laughed at himself after saying that. Good one. He walked with Sam over to the Impala and tried the doors. Locked and still no keys. They climbed onto the roof and watched and waited for the rest of the family to arrive. The next frightening story to unfold.

Sam placed the unused .45 between he and his brother, laying it next to the club Dean had taken. Well, borrowed. Dean silently observed as Sam bent his knees up, hugging them close to his body, shivering, bringing his bloody feet onto the slick wax of the Chevy's exterior. They slipped once, remounted and slipped again smearing scarlet on the new Midnight paint job. The older brother pulled his arms in though his shirt holes and removed his black tee, wrapping it around the younger man's wounded heels and twisting it around until it rested on top of his toes. It was damp with Dean's sweat, but the cold soothed the pain. Sam looked over to his brother and pulled his mouth into a small smile. Dean, shirtless in dried blood, waved him off with his hand and looked away.

"See anything?" Dean's voice was parched, his eyes peeled on the motel door.

Sam nodded, watching the commotion with his counterpart. "Yeah."

Dean's head gawked back. "Yeah?" he repeated, almost irritated. "Jesus, Sam, that would be something to share, now wouldn't it?"

Sam met his glare and grinned reluctantly back at him. "Yeah, well…" he lost his words for a moment. "I don't know… it's gonna sound a little crazy."

"Sam, we've been selling crazy our whole lives. Spit it out."

Sam hesitated, actually thinking about _how_ to answer him. It sounded not only crazy, but silly. even to him. He thought about the dark skin, the man like features, the human body, two definitive arms, muscular legs. And the wings. Big, black, rubbery wings – polished and pressed. His eyes darted from Dean to the door of the motel, not wanting to make full contact, embarrassed by what he was about to say. He thought maybe his brain had deciphered things wrong. Synapses mixing shadows with light, rods and cones not fully alert. He cleared his voice and squeaked out the first sound followed by a near whisper and flashed a childlike glance at Dean. "Batman."

Dean blinked. "George Clooney or Christian Bale?"

Sam looked away, humiliated, disgusted.

Dean scoffed. "Come on, Sam!"

"What? It had bat wings!"

"Bat wings?"

"Yeah. You know, big, black. Bat wings."

"Where did you chase it? You didn't shoot it, so what did you do?"

Sam felt his cheeks flush with discomfit. "Up a tree. And then… it flew away."

"Flew away?"

Sam nodded.

"Well, Hell." Dean paused a minute. "He must have saw the bat signal."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying…"

"Jerk."

Dean looked down at the black metal hood between his legs. "Bitch." Although it was barely audible.

They went back to gazing at the motel in silence, watching the officers. Waiting for others to arrive or for Tim to surface when black and fur caught Sam's eye. "That cat just came out of there."

Dean's iris reacted at the large dark cat that he had encountered earlier. It majestically pranced down the cement, passing the unnoticing law enforcers. "Don't get too close. Probably has scurvy. It was licking up Sophie's blood."

Sam shot his brother a look. "And Batman sounded crazy to you?" Sam waited for a derisive response, but when he didn't get one, he scowled, "It was in there with them?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Well, with her. In the bathroom with Sophie… or rather, with her body."

Sam studied the feline as it disappeared behind the motel. "You don't think what killed Sophie could have transformed into a cat afterwards, do you?"

The Harry Potter-ish thought hadn't even crossed Dean's mind. Guess anything was possible. Dean had just assumed the cat had probably belonged to Sophie. "Kind of throws a wrench in your Batman theory then, doesn't it, Robin? Of course, it could be Cat Woman."

"Shut up."

Dean smiled at him. "Yeah, you're a real Boy Wonder."

WWW

Jolly had picked up Clancy on their way back into town. They were inconsolable. Dean and Sam watched, from afar, finally showered and dressed, boots and all. It was doubtful they were so broken up about Sophie herself, but the fact that the terror was still looming and working through their family at an alarmingly fast rate. Every night. BamBamBam. It was too much for one person to take. Jolly thought aloud that maybe it would be best if he just get a shotgun and take his own life, get it over with. Let whoever, whatever have their revenge, claim their prize. But Clancy met him with tears, screaming, fists full of anger, plummeting his chest. It wouldn't end it, it would still come for the rest of them. It had to be found, had to be stopped before anyone else died. They'd had more than their fair share of losses. And by the brothers' own count, more than Dean and Sam had ever had, too. And they were hard to trump.

Timothy was no help to the police or to the Winchesters. The thing had came so fast, had blindfolded him first, gagged him second, and bound him last. It moved with quick precision, so fast and meticulous, it spun his head. He heard things, though. The ruffling, sounds like no animal or human he'd ever heard. A scratching when it walked, maybe claws, he wasn't sure. But it felt cold to the touch, it's skin like leather, like scales on a snake. From what he could hear, it had Sophie in the same position as her husband, but he could hear her throat working like she was being forced to drink something and then the sound of her being removed away from him, away from where they slept and taken to the back of the motel room. There wasn't much to report after that, broken glass shortly after. The sound of the thing escaping and then Dean releasing the binding from his eyes. He didn't want to talk about anything from that point on. He'd never forget it, though. The day his life ended. And a different, new, scarier life began.

The motel was now non-negotiable to stay at, according to the police. Three deaths, different sides of the building, the place was roped off and the few guests that were staying there were interviewed and evacuated. Sam packed the car while Dean talked with Jolly. It wouldn't be a good idea for any of the Rogers' family members to sleep away from each other, maybe they could all try bunking at the farm and if possible with all the clutter and garbage. The Winchester brothers could sleep on the floor, for added protection. Jolly mumbled something about no one being able to protect them now and a death sentence but he agreed. Clancy needed it, her teenagers needed it. Timothy needed tranquilizers and quick. It was a hard scene, hard for insiders and outsiders. Hard to find words, hard to find answers. And that was what Sam and Dean needed to do.

Clancy and her daughter had did a quick once over on the house, which really meant they grabbed everything they could carry and took them to the unfinished portion of the basement. They cleaned Grandpa's old room up pretty well and offered it to the boys, it only had one full-sized bed, but there was a small couch in the living room. It didn't really matter, the brothers would probably take shifts sleeping anyways. The family had to keep moving, they had to go back to the motel for more interrogation with the police, get a clean up crew in the lobby and Sophie's room and then on to the funeral home to make plans. It was a busy day.

Sam and Dean stayed back at the farm, researching, brainstorming. Trying to go through every bit of information they had on the victims, how they died, what exactly did Sam see, what was this thing killing these people and why. Besides the fact that it was attached to the same family, everything else seemed random.

"Except it kills at night." Dean reminded Sam. "I'm still thinking a demon. Maybe one that flies."

Sam nodded. "Not a trickster." He sounded relieved.

Dean nodded back. _Thank God._ "No, not a trickster."

"We can exorcise a demon."

"Sure," Dean reached over and opened a bag of chips Clancy had left behind for them. "We can get rid of anything, just have to know what it takes."

They were still up a creek. No paddles, but at least they were using their hands a little. Sam thumbed his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open and then closing it quickly. Dean watched him, frowning. "Expecting _Unsolved Mysteries_ to call?"

Sam looked dumbfounded for a moment, like he was three and caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Oh… it's just," he looked down at the computer screen and started typing. "I hadn't checked for a little while, thought maybe Bobby…"

"No?" Dean interrupted.

Sam shook his head. Dean could see the disappointment, could even see his little brother trying to mask it. Trying to look brave, older. Trying to look… normal.

"What is it, Sam?" Dean's voice caught him, his fingers stopped typing mid key.

Sam let out a deep breath, hot and long. He looked down at the table, fiddling with his fingers, not looking up, he had to keep his eyes low. He didn't want to give too much away. "Back in the room, before… before the ticks, I had a dream."

"You mean a vision."

Sam shrugged. "No, not really. I mean, it was a dream. Everyone was there – you, Mom, Dad, Jess. But so was Jolly and Tim and Clancy and I noticed that Sophie wasn't there…"

"Just a dream, man."

"But then I woke up and she was the first person I thought of." His voice cracked a little, still looking down, away. Keeping a purposeful separation. He waited for his brother to say something that would make him feel all right. Make him feel typical, ordinary, like everyone else on the planet. Which Sam was not. And Dean knew it. "Stop looking at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything, Sam." Dean sighed. Maybe it was starting again, maybe it had never left. His brother hadn't had visions since Old Yeller had bit it, but there were other things. Killing vamped out vampires with his bare hands, jumping into dreams and taking over like he was some kind of God, and keeping his sanity after seeing his brother killed over and over again for over one hundred Tuesdays. Nothing unusual or anomalous there.

"I just, I need to find an answer. I need to find the way to save you." His voice was quiet but piercing as he glanced up this time, his eyes pleading, afraid.

Dean tried to grab at that, tried to hold his gaze, but Sam had already glided away. It was funny how after all this time together, it was Dean who was trying to reach out now and Sam was the one pulling away. "We will. We'll find it."

"You shouldn't have made the stupid deal. Should've just…"

"Let well enough alone? Let you die?" Dean pushed up from his chair, thrusting back, needing the distance now, needing to move. "Been through this, Sam. I _had_ to save you."

"For you."

Dean shut his eyes. True. It had been for Dean more than Sam. It was immoral. It was selfish. Unnatural. It was all the hurt and pure emotion gutted into one single act and he didn't regret it, not really. It had been a hard year for both of them but it was better than the alternative. A lifetime alone, without anyone. Even his car couldn't compare to the way he felt about his brother. No one could. No one _ever_ could. And Sam knew that, deep down. Just now, the pressure of the clock was too much. Clock strikes midnight and Cinderella was going to lose a Hell of a lot more than a glass slipper. Sometimes it was just too much weight for the younger brother's shoulders and the older had to bear that. It came with the deal. His brother, although never openly thanked him for what he did, would always be grateful. And Dean knew that if the tables were reversed, Sam wouldn't hesitate a game of Russian Roulette, either. If it meant saving his brother. And that was what scared Dean. Desperate times require desperate measures. He had that one down pretty good now.

Dean placed his hand up to his eyes and rubbed. "I'm sorry. Is that what you want me to say, Sammy? I'm sorry."

Actually, that wasn't what Sam had wanted him to say. He felt bad, he felt beaten down and he wanted, he needed his brother. Needed him to do what he always did – make him feel better. But now he just felt worse. He eyed Dean, standing so quietly, looking so _kind_, staring back at him with affection. God, he didn't want Dean to leave him alone. Leave him without _this_, without having another…

"You're my brother." Dean gave him an expressive smile.

Sam wasn't sure if Dean saying that was part of his apology or for Sam's own peace of mind. It was just a dream, you're still my brother. You're not a monster, never going to be one. Because you're my brother. Nothing else. Sam nodded, his eyes clouding. There were just simple words, but _that_ made him feel better. "Yeah. You, too."

Dean nodded, he got it. He reached out and turned the old wooden chair around, sitting down backwards. "Got anything?" he asked, motioning back to the computer. Leaving their own family ghost stories on the backburner to concentrate on another.

Sam started typing, the two of them trying to connect dots for over an hour now and it all felt like a jumbled mess. Dean snatched an object off the table, the jack he had found in Grandpa Rogers' shower just yesterday. He started to spin it. Sam looked up and smiled silently as the shiny object whirled fast and then slowed down on it's rounded spikes, Dean taking it again and flicking it playfully.

Sam centered back to the computer, staring at pictures of the kids in the bus accident. He looked back to Dean and saw his brother spin the metal toy a third time. He went back to the computer and started counting his fingers out. "Oh, my God…" His eyes glinted, dazzling at the silver.

Dean stopped, his eyes skimming to Sam. "What?"

"The jack was found where Roger Rogers died, right?"

Dean shrugged. "I guess, not really sure…"

"_Jack_ Danitz. And then, the statue of Mary was under Josiah…" he touched his screen, "_Mary_ Kay Woods and the cat in Sophie's room, Katrina Hale. Remember, they called her _Kat_?"

Dean perked up. Finally, something. "Oh, my God."

Sam looked back to the computer screen and shook his head. "I don't know about Jolly's wife, though. I don't remember seeing anything."

They looked at each other and at the same time answered, "Silo."

WWW

They reached the water tower quickly. Sam sprang his arms out and grabbed hold of the ladder, hopping on the second rung. He started to climb, taking two at a time.

"Sam…" Dean started. He reached out and ran his glove over the metal steps. "Careful up there, these are a little slick this time."

Sam dropped him down a glance, shaking his head and looked back up. Hand over hand, he climbed back up the silo, Dean staying on the snowy ground below, watching. "Did you remember your flashlight?"

"Yeah, I'm not five!"

"Okay." He said to no one in particular.

Sam slowed up and stopped as he reached the peak, his body teetering as he gained his balance high above the Earth. He gripped the iron bar of the hatch and pulled hard, remembering last time he was there. He had to use muscles and air as he pulled it back with the heavy creaking, scraping metal against tin as it fell backwards in a thump. Sam clasped his flashlight in his hand and bent into the silo, shining the light against the metal interior, looking for anything his eyes had missed before. He turned the beam upwards and scanned the roof as best as he could, the folds of the tin greeting the point, making it difficult to see. He directed the light back down, into the water and let the beam sparkle on the tips of the surface. Over in the distance, flushed against the round wall, something caught Sam's attention. The rays from the flashlight gave a short glimmer, flicking once, and then dimmed to darkness. Sam flipped the handle in his hand, smacking it on his palm bluntly a couple of times. He hoisted himself back out of the hatch and looked down to his brother below.

"I think I see something!" he hollered down.

"What is it?" Dean put his hand over his eyes, shielding pricks of light peeking through the growing clouds above.

Sam looked back into the water. Dark. "I don't know! The batteries went dead!" He wobbled the flashlight in his fingers.

Dean sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. "Dude, you're suppose to check those!"

"I did check them, they _were_ working!?

Dean's hand came back empty. "I think I left my light back in the car!"

Sam glanced over to the Impala, trying to judge the distance from his perch. He thought about the darkness inside the tower. He needed the light. "Go get it, I'll wait here!" he called down.

Dean paused a couple of seconds and then turned, his arms falling to his sides, mumbling something Sam wasn't suppose to hear or maybe he was. Dean took off in a huff, walking up the small incline and back down towards the house, where he had parked earlier that morning. The Chevy even appeared to be cold as he approached it. When they left this hunt, he swore under his breath, that they would go somewhere warm. Somewhere they could get a suntan for once, margaritas, surrounded by string bikinis...

The farmhouse was quiet as he got closer, the only sound coming from his chomping boots. They weren't expecting the Rogers to return home for a while. Timothy had gone back to his apartment with Sophie's friends, to grieve and sleep. It was all going to take time. For all of them.

Dean reached the car and fell into the passenger seat, opening up the glove compartment. He grabbed a few batteries and reached across to the back seat, clutching one of the extra flashlights. They always kept a spare or two. He clicked the button and watched as a nice strong glow radiated from the silver head. Okay, this would do.

Dean exited the old girl, shutting her door with a hinged groan and started walking back to the silo. He hit the top of the small hill and cast his eyes on his brother, keeping his balance on the top rung of the ladder waiting for the older hunter to return. Only, he wasn't there. The small tower looked barren, cold and deadly.

Dean took off in a run, down the slope, his boots coming to a slippery halt at the bottom of the silo. He seized the rungs with his gloves and hauled himself up, taking the tread as quickly as he could, not caring about caution. His rubber soles slipped repeatedly as he made his way up, his hands keeping his body solid against the side of the large metal exterior.

He felt himself stop for just a second as his eyes traced the lines of something he hadn't seen before from the ground, something black, the tip of a… wing, fanning itself, expanding and retracting.

"Holy shit," it escaped into the air before he could stop himself, "it's Batman."

The fanning stopped and Dean looked up in awe as two eyes glared petulantly over the space of the hatch. Dean grabbed the next rung and started up the silo again with ferocity. He breached the last step and saw the creature was holding something down, submerging it into the water below. There was only one thing it could be and Dean met the winged-beast with his blood pumping full of a fury he hadn't known before. The Batman-thing shot it's body out of the small space and unfolded it's enormous wings. They were smooth and rich, chocolate coated. He stood a second, almost waiting, as Dean pulled his glock into his hands, aimed and fired. He hit it dead on, center, in the chest. The animal pulled back from the force, without a sound, and then stared back at the hunter, a smile on it's face.

"_Patronus, redono." _

Dean stunned, he recognized the words, knew what they meant, but was confused by them. He drew the gun back up, readied himself… and the creature sleeked it's body around and leaped from the silo, flapping swiftly away.

The sound of the water sloshing against the edge of the tower grabbed his attention. Dean curved over the hatch, into the silo, pointing the light down towards the darkness. The ray of the flashlight gleamed back as he saw it glisten on the water and then the beam hit something large, floating lifeless in the water. It was face down, dark, moppy hair fanned it's head and it's coat was bubbling up from the water rising from underneath it.

"Sam!"

**Translation:** _Patronus, redono._ (Latin): Protector, give up.

**A/N:** Hmmm… What'd you think? A lot going on, making a little head way then the head goes under water. They never catch a break. Poor guys… Chapter Four is already written, I'll just have to reread and tweak it. Should be up in a couple of days! Thanks again!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Thanks for reading and reviewing. It always does the soul good to hear. We'll see if Sam survives and if the boys can get any closer to finding out what the Hell is going on.

**Chapter Four: No Myth**

Dean didn't bother with the rungs on the other side of the silo. He maneuvered himself swiftly though the hatch and then just let go of the side and jumped in below. Once he was in the water, he didn't have far to reach before he felt his brother. It took one length of his arm, pulling his heavy-soaked body to him, through the murkiness and turning Sam over so he could see his face. Skin… pale. Lips… colorless. Eyes… lifeless. Cold Oak all over again. The fear was never far from the back of his mind.

Dean gulped. He tapped the side of his brother's cheek, no response. "Sam." Dean said through gurgles of spitting water. He thought maybe he felt his brother's head fall forward, maybe a groan. Maybe. He had to get him the Hell out of there. "Come on, Sammy," Dean coaxed, dog paddling them to the interior rungs. He reached up and started pulling both himself and Sam up the side, his brother heavy in his left arm, slipping from the slimy water and the weight. Dean's arm pulled sharply down from the force, but he forged through it, leveraging himself with his other arm, ignoring the shake that was building under his muscles. The older man drug them both up the inside wall, poking his head through the hatch and then pulling Sam up, his biceps curling harshly under his shirt, beneath his coat, pain rippling his nerves. He hauled Sam's body out of the silo as best as he could, resting him on the tip of the tower as he swung himself over. He kept a firm hand on Sam's chest, steadying him. He whirled his body over the side and grabbed hold of his brother, gently easing him to his chest, draping Sam's arms over his shoulders, calmly talking to him. "Sam, come on, you hang on. You just hang on to me, that's all I'm asking."

And in all honesty, it was asking a lot. But Sam did kinda hang on. His long arms flopped over Dean's collarbone and his older brother was able to shift him close, cinching his arms in so he held onto the rungs by his hands and onto Sam by his outer forearms. He started his fragile descent, taking each step easy, firmly, making sure his boot was solid before he bore weight into it. Dean tried to focus on his balance, on the rescue, but with his brother laying limply against him, he found himself checking for signs of life. Breathing, warmth, sound. He thought there were traces, barely audible, barely there. He felt the bob of the younger man's head against his neck and his own head tilted inward, obliging in the direction, reaching for something, a whisper, a name, a breath.

It seemed hours before Dean's foot crunched on solid snow below. He felt a heat avalanche through his body as he lowered his frozen brother to the ground. Dean sidled next to him, ripping off his gloves and placing his fingers against Sam's carotid. So faint. His hands pressed against his chest. He waited. Nothing.

"Come on, Sam." He put his right index and middle fingers back up to his brother's neck and then laid his left hand over his chest, synchronizing them. No heaving, no breathing, no gasps. The pulse was there, boom, boom…boom…boom… tickling Dean's fingers but becoming more and more stringy. Weakening.

He was losing him.

Dean tilt his brother's head back and opened his mouth, looking in quickly for anything that might be present, obstructing his throat. There was nothing he could see. He pinched his nose off and put his mouth over Sam's. One breath, two. He watched his little brother's chest rise and fall. Then he felt back to his neck. Boom, boom. Still there. He counted fifteen seconds and then gave Sam two more breaths. He checked again, the pulse still there, although be it thready, it was still beating. But it wasn't comforting, his brother looked so pasty-blue. His lips were thin and cold, his cheeks were ashen. Dean felt a pull inside, internal wounds being stirred and pushed them back with old memories. He shook his head and brought his concentration to the here and now. "Sam, breathe."

It was only fifteen seconds in between breaths and Dean felt like he was getting the tar beat out of him. His own heart raced in his chest, his mind worked much faster than his body, jumping to conclusions, mapping out plans. _Don't… don't do this to me, Sam._ It always came back to the deep seeded fear the older brother had. He couldn't live without the younger. Wouldn't live without.

And this was the worst part. Waiting. Wanting. Needing. Looking down into his brother's youthful face. All the time ticking by, seconds he'd never get back again. "Come on, come on. Breathe, Sam. Do it."

Another set of breaths and as he pulled back, he heard the gurgle. Dean's hazel eyes constricted, his hands pushing Sam over to his left side in an automatic response of what their father had instilled in them since they were young. They had been trained well, skilled hunters, exquisite trackers and adept survivalists. But they were never quite prepared for the latter. It always took more out of them then they had to give. Dean looked on as water spouted from Sam's mouth like an erupting fountain.

The older man rubbed his brother's back. "That's it, Sam. You're… doing good, baby." He meant to finish with brother, but he stopped. His voice was already jumpy and his words were tumbling uneasy and skittishly into the space between.

Sam took in shallow, gasping breaths. The side of his face was placed firmly on a pillow of snow, in spite of the fact that the iciness was burning his skin. He choked in a few more breaths, not sure if he was breathing in air or water and then was hit with a wave of violent coughs. He felt a light pressure on his back as he tried to fight through the wheezing. Something shifted next to him, pulling on him gently. Dean. He lifted heavy lids, lashes wet and icy from freezing water and packed snow. He peered into his crystallized view of the world and saw nothing but small snow mounds next to him. His breathing was coming in bursts of fire, but surprisingly easier. They were evening out as he tried a few deeper gulps, filling his lungs instead of violating them. Sounds started filtering into his fluid filled ears, painful at first.

"did good...breathe…open…eyes…"

And then they caramelized, Sam feeling the sounds and not just hearing them.

"That's it, Sam. You're… doing good, baby."

Sam turned towards his brother's voice, his side scrunching deeper into the snow as he turned his body. His eyes slid over as far as they could, seeing Dean peeking down towards him.

"Sammy." Dean held his breath in that one word. Hell, he held everything in that word.

Sam pushed his gloved hands down into the white below and started to shove himself up. It hurt, ached throughout his chest, throbbed his head and his vision came and went rapidly. Spots, sparkles and maybe even stars.

He felt hands on his upper arms as his body started to sag back down. Hands not pulling or pushing, just anchoring. And, God, did he need anchoring. Together those hands and Sam's muscles were able to get the younger Winchester to a sitting position. His breath left him for a moment, hindering his progression. He took the moment to tilt his head up, locking on his older brother in front of him and felt a pull inside. Mixing and melting, the exhaustion collided with the near passing out as a rush of happiness blended inside. Relief. Dean had pulled him back into the land of the living once again and for those few seconds, it seemed worth it. His brother looking at him, smiling, made Sam actually believe he was worthy. His life was still pure enough for the saving.

Dean shifted, he reached out and started to unzip the waterlogged coat, removing it from his kid brother's body. Large skinny fingers grabbed back at his wrists as he pulled Sam's arms through.

"Wait." Sam said, his voice thick and soggy. He reached into his front coat pocket and tenderly pulled out a wilted, soddened, flower and folded it into Dean's upper torso, pressing it hard to his brother.

Dean clasped the brittle flower into his hand and admired it, perplexed. His eyes flicked to Sam's blue-green orbs, suddenly trickling with signs of life once again.

"Violet."

WWW

It took both of them working together to trudge through the snow back to the farm house. Sam stripped his clothes immediately and took advantage of the warm shower Dean had running for him. The shower felt immaculate. It was a tough job, though, going from mostly dead to living again. Then again, Sam _was_ getting the hang of it. It only took a couple of hours before the shivering had subsided and the chattering was reduced to occasional clicks of the teeth. He slouched forward and took his seat back at the computer with Dean at his heels, dogging him for refusing rest. Sam ignored him and gave him crap for calling him baby, although Dean adamantly rebutted it. He stared at his younger brother, passively baffled. He hadn't expected his brother to remember that, he thought he had been knocked out cold.

_Huh._

Violet McBride, twelve-years-old. That completed four of the six, leaving only the two Parkman brothers, twelve-year-old Matt and eight-year-old Bobby and the two Winchester brothers barely had any information on them to run with.

"So, this… thing is connected to Jolly and the bus accident and it kills at night." Dean walked the room, talking aloud, listing what they knew.

"Well, it did only kill at night, but now…" Sam worked his throat, his lungs still working out the filthy water.

"Yeah, you." Dean paused. He wondered a moment why it had assaulted Sam. He wasn't part of the Rogers' family, he hadn't attacked it. It was as though it had come _for_ him. No, that wasn't possible. Maybe it was striking anyone on the farm. Dean shook his head. It didn't make sense, throwing his brother into the mix. If this was the thing that had been messing with them, though, it was taking things to a new - and scarier - level. "Trying to kill during the day… Batman's changed it's pattern."

Sam smiled at the Batman reference, typing at the keyboard. "Yeah. And leaves behind, I guess, clues."

"And it's pestering the Hell out of us. Like it knows who we are." He stopped and grinned down at his brother. "Didn't know we were so popular, huh?" Dean sounded humored and dead serious all wrapped in one. "Demon."

Sam had stopped typing and was now staring. "Maybe not."

Dean crouched over his brother, gazing back to the colorful screen. Sightings of what they had both seen had definitely been reported over the years. Eyewitness accounts. Descriptions of what it looked like. How it killed. It preferred to speak in Latin. And it had to be summoned.

Sam rubbed his forehead, his head starting a repeat show of his previous headache. "A fallen angel." His voice was unrecognizable. He didn't even believe it himself. He swallowed, his throat scratching against the dryness. He looked over to Dean, not sure what to think, hoping his older brother could fill in the blanks.

Dean lifted his eyebrows into inverted V's. "Okay. Sounds right. But, when a fallen angel is… you know, cast out… it becomes a demon, right? Working for the other side. So we're really just dealing with… a demon." Which honestly didn't make him feel any better.

Sam read on, hoping for another answer, another alternative. But he didn't get one. "It says it's most likely a second sphere fallen angel, worse than a normal one. Whatever that means." He stopped and then let out a heavy sigh. "It's like a demon, but on steroids."

"Oh, great. The Arnold Schwarzenegger of fallen angels."

Sam pulled out their Dad's journal and started flipping through, reading. The brown leather was smooth underneath his own fine touch. He browsed the words, the drawings. His Dad's work, his life . All the time he'd spent in Hell. The pictures coming to life for John - demons, devils, they'd all taken a crack at him, Sam was certain.

"Says in here it can't be exorcised. You have to kill it."

"Any ideas?" Dean waited. They didn't have the colt, both of them instantly wishing secretly for the easy way out. Salt rounds wouldn't kill it. Dean already used regular bullets and that did nothing to it, except make it smile. Consecrated iron?

"Consecrated iron?" Sam sounded his brother's thoughts.

But it didn't sound right. "Maybe… doubtfully."

Back up a creek. No paddles. Just floating along.

Sam stopped, pointing at John's notes. "Dad thought with this sort of demon that the person conjuring it had to summon it back to them. It can be killed but only when it's returned to the source."

"Shoot it with what?"

Sam looked up, shaking his head, his eyes filled with a tinge of fright that Dean caught. "You don't shoot it. You have to cut off its wings. Both of them."

Dean made a face. "Probably gonna take some muscle power to cut through those bad-boys, huh?"

Sam lifted his brows, agreeing. Black muscular webbed wings. There was a lot of of strength there. They'd need to sharpen all their blades.

The older hunter smirked. "Great. Now what."

"Well, it's giving us clues, I think. Or marking each death with a clue."

"But we already checked into the parents…"

"Except the Parkman brothers and they're the last ones left."

"Mom's dead."

"Leaves Dad." Sam shrugged, not sure if this was right or wrong, but the boat was moving a little again.

Dean tilted his head. "I think I know where to start."

WWW

They waited for Jolly and the rest of the Rogers family to arrive back to their home, a much smaller clan than the last time they had congregated there. It was a somber sight for all of them. Clancy's hips didn't swish in like the boys had observed before. She entered into the house a wasted woman, distraught and foredoomed. They all bore scars of their battle, even the teenagers. Cara, Clancy's daughter was a big girl and a big help around the house. She cleaned and moved furniture, kept food on the table and drinking glasses full. She was adorable, her plump face was cherry sweet and she had a grand smile which graced her cheeks. That is, when she allowed herself. Riley, Clancy's son was the younger of the two. He was small in build and had went straight to bed. Too tired to think, too tired to talk. Just too tired. Timothy wasn't far behind his nephew. He had stayed up for about an hour, mostly listening to the others doing the talking. His eyes were haunting, miserably lost, often brimmed filled with tears that wouldn't fall. He was in a haze, a vapor no one could really penetrate, half of it drug induced and half of it demon induced.

The brothers had patiently waited for Cara to go to bed before they questioned Jolly, Clancy close by in the kitchen doing dishes. It was a volatile subject to breach and they handled it with the gentlest of care. Easing in to it, Sam, of course, started the conversation. His voice started soothing and syrupy, his brother sitting stoically across from him at the dining table.

"We think we've figured out what is killing your family," Sam explained. "It's a demon." He purposefully chose not to say angel. There was no room for that word at this table. No amount of explaining would help this family understand how _that_ word could cause such pain. "A demon on a higher level, very powerful. And it seems to be connected to the bus accident."

Jolly nodded. He remained quiet, listening intently.

"The problem is, someone is summoning it, giving it control to do these… acts and for us to be able to kill it, we need to figure out who's conjuring it."

Jolly shrugged. "I don't know." He looked sincere.

Both hunters looked at him, though, the same disbelieving look across each of their faces.

Jolly read the message. "I don't."

"Is there anything you haven't told us about the accident? Anything you remember about the Parkman brothers or their father?" Sam tried again. It wouldn't have been the first time the person they were helping had purposefully held out on them.

If there had been a hint of light in Jolly's eyes up to this point, it was faded now at the mention of the Parkman's. He shifted in his seat, the old chair creaking under his weight and he rested his hands on his enormous belly, his fat thumbs chasing one another. "What did you want to know?" His voice rolled out, slowly, veiled.

"Well," Dean's mouth pressed down, "we thought maybe their father was conjuring this, this demon."

Jolly shook his head. "No, no way. Unless dead men can summon spirits." He seesawed towards the dining table. "After the boys died, Cole moved away from here. He tried to hold it together for a while, lasted about a year or so and then one day…" he looked up to the brothers, "he took his '72 Chevy Nova out on a joyride. Put a shotgun to his head. Then he splattered his brains out all over her insides."

"Nice car," Dean involuntarily commented.

Sam shot him a look. Dean, abashed, recoiled back at him.

"Yeah, well, point is, whole family is dead." Jolly took a swig of his beer in front of him.

That was that.

"So, the boys, Matt and Bobby. What do you remember about them?" Sam stared back at the old man.

"Why? They're not summoning the demon. They're dead."

"Jolly," Clancy's frosty voice came from behind all of them. The boys turned their heads and stared at the woman. She stood, saddened, resting against the door jam of the kitchen, wringing her hands on a dish cloth. "You need to tell them." She reached above the refrigerator and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long drag.

"I thought you quit." Jolly sounded back.

Clancy shot him a glare that made Sam and Dean cast their eyes down. "Are you friggin' kidding me?" Her voice was icy cold.

Jolly shook his head. He looked away from Clancy, away from the hunters, his large chest rose sluggishly, taking in breaths in like he was slowly suffocating.

"You want to save your family, right?" Dean's gruff voice startled the big man. "We need to know what you know."

Jolly sat back then, back to the thumb chasing, back to staring at his beer. He licked his lips and almost pouted. "The Parkman's… originally, the mother, Lynn, was from around here. I knew here growing up, real sweet girl, pretty little thing. I knew her Mom and Dad and they were a nice, nice family. When she got older, she got herself a job, got herself a boyfriend and got herself in trouble. Her parents, didn't care much for Cole but the two of them got married and then moved away. Her folks were so mad and she swore she would never come back here." He stopped a moment, taking a long pull from the neck of his ale. "And she never did. She had the one boy and then had the other and then…well, she died. Left that bastard with her babies. He wasn't father of the year material, you know what I'm saying?"

Actually, they did.

"By the time old Cole moved back here, Lynn's Mom was long gone and her Dad had moved on, moved away. There was no family left here anymore. He got the boys in school and he had a job that had him traveling most the time and that older boy, Matt, he watched the younger one. A lot."

Dean's eyes flashed over to Sam. His younger brother was studying Jolly, listening, but the older saw the quick look back in his direction. Sam gave him a half smile and blinked back to the older man.

"Those boys didn't have a whole lot. They'd walk around the town dressed in dirty clothes, half ripped off of them sometimes. I don't know about food or who cooked or even… how they survived as long as they did. But, they always seem to manage to get themselves to school and back home before dark. Matt, he was an ornery little cuss. Always getting into trouble, but real likeable. Bobby, he was… quieter. Different."

Sam canted his head. "Different? How?"

Jolly made a face, lifted a shoulder. "I dunno. Just different."

Clancy sat down, taking up the last chair at the dinette. The smoke from her cigarette bunched above her head and started rolling down the table. She stared at her father, waiting. He met her glare, swallowing more than just his beer down. Clancy folded her hands. "Go on," she directed.

Jolly blinked again, his mind seeming to flip back in time. Back to that day. "I remember the boys were really excited on the bus, more so than the other kids and I just figured it was because they never got to do anything. As far as I knew, they never went anywhere so this show was a real treat for them."

"They were sitting together?" Dean assumed. He was already mentally there. Dean was a visionary, putting the pieces together. Picturing the bus, the kids, Jolly at the wheel, the deathly curve ahead…

"No. The students were separated by grades. Matt was towards the back. Bobby was about a quarter way down from the front." He met Dean's tense face and looked away flustered. "I… I lost control of the bus, it hit the water and… for a minute or so, none of us really could do anything. The force of the impact and the realization of what happened, it kind of stunned us. But then the screaming started, or maybe they were already screaming. I don't remember… or know for sure, but Mrs. Post was there and she was pulling me up. We had just a little bit of time before the bus would start to sink so we made our way to the back of the bus, got the emergency door open and started throwing kids out. Matt was one of the first ones off. After about half the kids were out, the bus started teetering and we weren't able to keep our leverage as well. The kids were sliding down towards the nose and I had to run down and grab one and then crawl back with it to get the rest of 'em out. Mrs. Post hung on to the outside of the door and would pull the kid the rest of the way." He stopped again and just sat, staring, remembering, glancing at Clancy and to the brothers. His lips twitched under his wide nose and long breaths pulled from his gut.

The puff from Clancy's mouth interrupted the silence. "There's more."

Jolly stared silently across the dinette at his daughter, but didn't see her. He wasn't in the dining room anymore… or the farmhouse. He was in sinking yellow school bus and was making his fatal judgment.

His voice was distant and slurred… and relieved. "I passed Bobby by. More than once. I'd grab one of the other kids and take them up, get them to safety and then I'd… go back and get a different one. Even though Bobby was closer than… any of the rest of them. He'd hold his hand out to me the first few times and I just ignored him. One time I looked at him and he just said… 'Please.' But by the last couple of trips, he stopped reaching for me. He just looked out the window, watching the water flood in, rushing around him, through the cracks." Jolly looked back out at the listeners at the table, his eyes dry. "But I just left him there."

There was an unsettling silence between the three people at the table. Dean thumped his temple with his forefingers. Ever since the day their Dad died Dean had carried a weight on his shoulders, a curse he may have to carry out. Even now in the lull of safety it was still with him. Every hunter they had met who knew their secret vowed death. Every demon that knew of certain destinies had their minds made up about his brother. Even, possibly, their own father. Any one of them would have probably given up on Sam by now. Sold him down the river, let dark forces leech on to him… or kill him. But for Dean it wasn't that easy, and for most, _that_ would have been the easy road. His Sam had never given up on him. His Sam had always fought for Dean. His Sam believed his brother could save him. Maybe five years ago in a cold South Dakota lake another brother believed the same thing about his Matt. His Bobby.

Whether the older boy had chose to go back for the younger, the purposeful act from Jolly was still wrong. No matter how many children were saved in the end. One life was not more important than another. It was always risky business playing God. Who lives, who dies and at what cost.

"Why didn't you save him?" Dean asked, accusingly his palms up, spread open on the table.

Jolly regarded the question, it had to be asked. And only Jolly knew the answer. "Because I didn't like him. I never did and those other kids, they had just as much a right to live as he did…" his voice trailed, "I know it doesn't make sense, but…"

"No, it doesn't," Dean snarled at him. His own thoughts rushing to a recently drowned little brother of his own.

Jolly nodded. "It just seemed like the only thing to do at the time. It was like I didn't have a choice. Someone else was guiding me." He waited and let them absorb that, but instead it stewed hotly between everyone at the table. No one accepted his feeble response. "But, what I didn't plan on was Matt. I was only half way back to the land, where the others were… and Matt was already coming back into the water. He went… crazy. No one could hold him back or catch him. He was diving in the water, and the last of the bus was just submerging, bubbling at the surface and it was like something reached out and grabbed him. Took him down. I couldn't believe it when he didn't come back up." Jolly huffed and then cleared his throat. "I thought Cole would at least have one of his boys, you know? I chose kids who didn't have siblings with them that day. At least one Parkman boy could go home. But… but Matt wasn't going anywhere without Bobby. And he didn't."

Sam was staring across the dinette at Dean, his brother returning the vulnerable look. Sam looked so breakable to his big brother. He was an elegant stained glass window, built with pride and love and so adorned, so special. So easily shattered. He gave Dean a shuddered smile, his eyes full. There was a truth laying between them. A trust with one another's lives. Dean could see the questions on Sam's face. He could see an upsetting fear. Sam thought he heard Dean say something to him again and he tried to answer him back. But he knew it was silly. Neither one of them were talking. But there are times when we speak with more than just words. When we discover things about ourselves, about each other that we never dreamt could be true…

"What about Mr. Parkman? Did you ever tell him any of this?" Dean questioned, directing back to the old man.

Jolly scoffed. "No! Are you… nuts? I ain't never told anyone any of it. Well, after my wife and father passed, I told some of it to Clancy. Guilt, I guess."

And there it was. Jolly's guilt. Jolly's secret. More than likely the reason why Jolly's family was dropping like flies. But no living parents to conjure a demon, the boys both dead and gone. Sam and Dean were still at a loss at who was actually controlling the demon, who was getting their sweet revenge on the Rogers.

WWW

Clancy slept with Cara that night. Jolly in his own room. Timothy was upstairs in his old room, bunking with his nephew. Sam and Dean were still at the dining table, still plucking through the straws. The younger man had the iPod synched with the computer, Dean strumming his fingers on the table, bopping his head to the low music. He always did think better with a beat.

_Well we all need someone to lean on_

_And if you want it, you can lean on me_

"Guess we should re-look at the other parents tomorrow, huh?" Dean offered.

Sam nodded, yawning. Sounded as good as anything. He glanced at the black numbers on his computer, 1:43 a.m. "Taking first shift or you want me to?"

_Yeah, we all need someone we can dream on_

_And if you want it, well you can dream on me_

Dean waved him off. "Nah, I'll do it. I could stay up a while."

Sam closed the laptop and pushed it away. He moved the old chair back from the dinette and stood up. "Dean, what do you think Jolly meant? He thought Bobby was different."

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, man. Just didn't like the kid, I guess. Some kids just get on people's nerves."

Sam stared at him. Dean could feel his brother wasn't on board with that answer. It was a bit of a cop-out.

"Some people are just assholes, Sam."

_We all need someone we can feed on_

_And if you want it, well you can feed on me_

Sam hesitated, nodded. "Yeah, maybe."

"What?"

Sam's eyes fell onto his brother's. "Nothing. It's just, these kids, the way there were brought up…"

"Reminds you of us?"

_We all need someone we can bleed on_

_And if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me_

Sam nodded. His eyes locked with his brother's. Dean would've jumped into that lake, too. He would have pulled his baby brother from the swirling of the cold water. He would have lugged him back to land. He would have breathed life back into him. Because that's what Dean did. He saved.

"They're not us, Sam. We were always okay. Dad always made sure that we were okay."

"When he was around."

"Yeah, and he had back up. We had Pastor Jim and Caleb and Bobby." Dean smiled. "You had me." _And I had you._

_Get it on, rider, Get it on, rider_

_You can bleed all over me._

Sam dipped his head. "Yeah, you're right." He turned and started to walk the short distance between the dining area and the door to the downstairs when he stopped and turned back to Dean. There was a faint murmur, almost musing his ears, whispering something to him. "Did you say something?"

The corners of Dean's mouth pulled down. "No."

Sam waited, listening. It was so low, so soft. "Do you hear that?"

Dean straightened, his ears perking. "No."

Sam squinted, concentrated. Tried to make out what it was saying. A quiet rustle teased at him, a low voice taunted him.

_Ego mos usus vestri pectus pectoris._

His eyes widened at his brother. "Dean, it's coming!"

There was a crash above them and the sounds of flip-flops riddled down through the ceiling. Sam's long legs took him through the dining room quickly and up the stairs in three missile-like strides. Dean rammed his body away from the table and ran behind his younger brother, clamoring at his heels. Sam chucked the door open to one of the small bedrooms. There were two small beds flanking the side walls, they blankets were flying through the air, the lamp had crashed onto the floor, the overhead light was flashing on and off. Riley sat on the corner of his bed, curled up in ball, wide eyed, mouth opened in a silent scream. While Timothy had been yanked from his twin bed, clawing the plaster from the walls with his fingernails as he was ferociously dragged to the window.

Dean pounded into Sam from behind as they stood and watched the angel emerge from the chaos. It grasped Tim by the waist and flung him out the window, carrying him from the house to the empty barn below. Sam turned abruptly, pushing Dean back out the same way they came, down the stairs and to their guns. Their machetes, their knives, their rifles already neatly laid out in a row. They were still dressed, save for Sam's shoes which he charged out of the house without. Again.

The cryptic moonlight was monstrous, casting eerie light on the fallen snow, vaulting the light from below. The brothers ran the course of the distance quickly, Sam still leading the way until he breached the barn doors, heaving them apart. No need to approach quietly, the angel – or demon – already knew they were coming for it.

Timothy was being held close to the muscular, devilish body when Sam opened the doors. Its wings were encasing him close to its dark form, its bony hands set appropriately on either side of his cheeks. One snap and that would be it. Sam raised his sawed off and pointed it at the creature and spoke calmly, loudly. "Let him go."

The thing smiled at him. Sharp fangs dripped with saliva and seeped down to the wood.

The blast left Sam's gun before he even knew it. It traveled above the hay-scattered floors and slammed into the demon's head. Its body jerked completely back, disorienting it. Its grasp weakened and Tim dislodged from its wings. He fell to his knees and quickly scrambled away from the Evil that had captured him. He peddled his body into one of the old horse stalls and hid behind a beam. Waiting out the wrath that was sure to come.

Dean had entered the barn when the blast occurred, watching with grand eyes as the beast took the shot, dropped Timothy and then erected itself again, back in perfect condition. Its large brow furred over its black slanted eyes. A bleb of dark crimson erupted from its forehead and oozed down its sculpted cheeks. Still smiling. It took a step towards Sam and then increased its pace, lessening the span between them. Sam cocked the gun back and fired again, this time hitting the demon in the chest. Its shoulder flinched, but it kept its time and marched its robust legs faster towards the younger Winchester.

Dean heaved himself in front of Sam and pummeled the fallen angel with his rifle full of consecrated rounds – one, two, three, four, five, six. Empty. The demon stopped, regrouping itself and then gazed over to Dean.

_Patronus, redono._

Dean narrowed his eyes at it. He reached back and grabbed his Bowie, bucking it through the air and clipping one of the massive black wings. It tore through, slicing the wing down vertically, roughly cutting it like the sail of a boat. The Bowie continued to fall onto the wood planks below, the blade slamming hard, sticking with a thud in the ground.

The creature stopped. It turned its head and looked at the damage. It rubbed its middle finger and thumb together and licked them with its wickedly long tongue, pressing the moisture onto the rubber wing. It sharply released it, the wing splendidly retracting in tip-top condition.

Then it turned and focused back to Sam.

Dean watched in torment as the demon approached his younger brother, smiling, its eyes dark, hints of yellow glimmering, hints of red flickering. Its dusky skin curdling as it got closer, movement creeping under the epidermis prickling at the surface. Its scaly hands clenched its fingernails into fists and released them. Dean scrambled from the floor and pressed between the animal and his brother, closing the gap. The demon automatically froze. It stilled, almost blinded by where Sam had went, although there was no way possible for his tall build to hide behind Dean. The creature appeared to look over the older brother's shoulder, looking around to see his reward. But he only saw Dean. It reared back and hissed at him, gaping back as Dean took maddening steps towards the demon. It lunged at the hunter and grabbed him quickly by the throat, seizing him, holding him high above the wood planks, pressing his cold hands together and squeezing. Dean's throat began to close, shutting off his oxygen supply, his face turned bright red and his eyes watered, cold wetness streaming down his cheeks. He kicked his legs out, trying to push the creature back, throw his balance off, but it only resulted in his throat being strangulated even more.

"Hey!" Sam yelled. The dark angel dropped Dean as Sam scuttled across the hay and plunged his shiv into the beast's stomach, the raw steel plummeting in and through its abdomen. Sam pushed in with all the fury inside him and then yanked it out, ejecting the knife back into a bloody mess. The demon backed up, its wings beating unevenly against one another as it stumbled. Dean pulled his glock out and started firing, not keeping track this time, hitting the Evil animal again and again until the gun clicked empty.

The fallen angel stopped. It didn't magically heal its wounds this time, but it did keep breathing, kept bleeding. It swaggered to an open window in the back of the barn and turned to look at the brothers, Dean now standing in front of Sam. The demon narrowed its eyes again, as though it was searching for the younger and when it couldn't seem to locate the crown, it focused again to Dean.

_Patronus, redono._

Dean reached down and picked up a rock, slinging it at the creature and hitting it on its head. "Stop saying that!" he screamed, his entire body seething, starting off in an unbridled run towards the angel.

It abruptly turned, folded its large black appendixes inward and catapulted out the window. The mighty wings spreading as it entered the cold night, soaring it high into the night sky, away from the farm, away from the hunters.

But claiming no victims on this trip.

**Translation: **_Patronus, redono._ Protector, give up.

_Ego mos usus vestri pectus pectoris._ I will possess your heart.

**Playlist: **_Let it Bleed_ from the Rolling Stones


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Another big thanks for the reviews! I am not sure if my replies are going through or not, I'm not getting emails from the fan fiction site and I'm not sure why. I have a note out to them so hopefully it will be taken care of soon. I can read the reviews, though, and I hope my replies are going to all of you! Hope you enjoy Chapter Five!

**Chapter Five: The Unveiling**

He needed the sleep, but it wasn't finding him. Dean sat propped-up in bed, warm compacts soaking his throat. The damned Batman-thing had had a good hold on him, leaving behind black and blue marks forcing the shapes of slinky fingers around his neck. It was nothing some Tylenol and compresses wouldn't take care of. His voice was raspy, but deep. Still Dean. He told Sam he just needed to work through some of the zing and crudeness of his larynx. In all honesty, he hurt.

Sam had long passed out on the miniature sofa, his gangly limbs splayed everywhere, on cushions, on pillows, on the floor. It was really more a loveseat than a sofa. Dean's brother was draped over it like GI Joe caught in a Barbie Dream House sleepover. As uncomfortable as Sam looked, Dean wasn't that lucky. Sleep wasn't claiming him, even though it was early morning. Perhaps it was from the pain of his throat, maybe because when he closed his eyes, the wicked creature they were dealing with popped in. Or it could be because of the words it spoke to him. It hadn't been the first time he had words haunt him, keep him awake in the night.

_I want you to look after Sammy. You have to save him and if you can't save him, you have to kill him. _

He tried to close his eyes again, letting the warmth from the compress relieve him, although it felt like pins and needles. It wasn't soothing, nothing was soothing anymore. Everything that hit his body, hit his heart was a full blown strike. Especially where his brother was involved. It wouldn't be asking too much, as his days chipped by, to have an easy hunt, would it? To have time to search for ways to swindle out of his deal. To catch a break from the job, from life. To have a few real moments with his family. But right now his family was passed out, catching up on sleep that had been coming to him.

_As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you._

Words from the horse's ass. Blind promises, although more than heartfelt, wanting so badly make it come true. But the _as long as I'm around part_ was a little shaky these days and Dean knew Sam more than felt it. The look in his eyes, the way he carried his body, the tone in his voice. The ache in his soul. Sam was scared. And so was Dean. But he'd never admit it. Never admit that he was afraid of…

"Dean?"

Dean's face turned towards the younger Winchester, sitting up on the tiny sofa, his neck kinked to the right. He looked so gawky and bumbling on the small cushions.

"Go back to sleep, Sam," Dean's voice grated out.

Sam rotated his neck to the left and right, rolling it around his shoulders. "Can't. Can't get comfortable."

Dean nodded. "Want me to switch with you?"

Sam grabbed his pillow and blanket and headed towards his brother. "No." He threw the covers onto the floor next to the bed.

"Sam, there's a pull out upstairs…"

"No, this is okay." Sam sighed as he flopped onto the floor, turning to his side. He eyes shut dreamily and his face softened, turning towards his brother.

"Sam…"

"Shut-up."

Dean looked down and smiled to himself. As sad as it was, the kid could barely sleep in a room alone. He'd almost always had to share his room or bed with someone, save for the few months away from college before he met Jessica. And now, even Sam didn't want to spend their precious time away from his doomed sibling, awake or asleep.

Dean shook his head and chuckled to himself. Yeah, he'd make a great Dark Lord one day.

WWW

In the light of day, it all seemed to have been worth it, once more. After all, they had saved a life. Until night came, of course, and the fallen angel would most likely seek revenge upon the Rogers' all over again. Timothy was in a daze from the previous nights events or maybe it was from the night before. So much for them to take in and process, the combination of all the losses and horror was just too much for the survivors.

Sam had his steno notepad out, checking his notes. "Probably should go back and check the Danitz family again," he spoke up. They had scoured the house, though, upstairs and downstairs. They could maybe follow Lyle Danitz and see what secrets he might have lying around. Maybe he had rented some place out to practice Evil and get his retribution, although neither brother really thought that was the case. They were running out of options, and although day number eighty-four was still early, they were already running out of time.

It was almost sickening to both boys as they re-examined the places they had already cased. The results came back the same, no new information. They had hung low and waited for Lyle Danitz to leave the house, following him around the small town dropping off mail, getting coffee, reading the newspaper and finally on to work. There certainly wasn't any conjuring of Evil spirits penciled into his monotonous day.

They looked at the Rogers family, friendships connected to Jolly that had perhaps turned sour since the accident, but the town really did seem to be rallying around the big man. Especially now with his own personal stack of deaths.

"Okay, maybe there is a way that the spirits of the kids are commanding this… demon to wipe them all out," Dean's voice still sounded like tree bark. They were back at the old farm, bunkered in the small dining room, evening starting to fall outside. Dean sat, sharpening the blades, not much time left before the darkness took over.

Sam shrugged. "So we have to what? Find where all the kids are buried and salt and burn them before night falls?"

It sounded impossible. It sounded stupid. It sounded wrong. "There can't be that many cemeteries around here."

Sam flipped through his steno. "Mary Kay was cremated. Violet and Jack were both buried in town at Morning Rise Cemetery. Kat was buried a couple of hours away in her mother's hometown."

"Matt and Bobby?" Dean lifted his eyebrows.

Sam's mouth twitched. "Dunno."

They were interrupted by a small knock on the screen door behind them, so soft they almost didn't hear it. Dean turned in the direction of the door and saw a mess of blonde hair through the reflection.

"Oh, hi," the voice sounded relieved. "I was afraid I had missed you again." Kelly, the homely Aquarius from the records office, stood on the front step of the farmhouse, shivering under her coat.

Dean smiled, allowing her inside. "Hi." Shit, it was Saturday evening. Had he committed to the date with her? He couldn't even remember back to the past couple of days.

She looked passed Dean, though, and towards Sam. "I tried you guys at _the Jolly Rogers_, but it was all roped off. I talked to one of the officers and he thought you guys might be staying out here. Sorry, I came by earlier, but there wasn't anyone around."

Sam nodded at her. "That's okay…"

She handed him a large manila folder, crammed with court papers and copies of gruesome photos. "I wanted to get this over to you, I know your paper is due next week and I thought it would help you out on your research."

Sam took the heap from her. "Thanks, Kelly." He looked at her with all the sincerity he could muster up. "We appreciate this so much."

She was a timid girl, but she gave him a wonky toothed smile and flashed a quick, sharp look over to Dean then gazed back to Sam a few seconds longer than needed. She walked herself clumsily backwards to the front door. Dean held the screen open for her as she exited, giving her a friendly wave and a nod, thanking her as she swooned out the door.

"Dude, did I step into some bad light?"

Sam looked over to him, confused. He opened the folder up.

"She's got terrible taste in guys." Dean grumped back to the table.

They sunk into the dinette, Sam splitting the file up between them. Dean started rustling through his half, speed reading, looking for important words, names. Sam took things slower, skimming the lines, reading sentences, hunting for clues. Dean took a drink of his soda, wincing as it burned down his throat, but the water tasted like sewage and there wasn't anymore juice left in the house.

Sam stopped his flipping and read, riveted. His fingers flew through his papers as he came across a copy of a picture and then another.

"How did Clancy say Roger Rogers died?" Sam asked his brother.

Dean glanced up. "Uh, the Grandfather? Pulled the skin off his bones with his fingers." He said it so matter-of-fact. Like it was an every day occurrence. Heart attack, car accident, pulling the skin off your body…

Sam stared at the pictures. "Not so sure about that." He flipped a horrific photo over to his brother. Upon Sam's request, Kelly had copied the reports of the killings of the Rogers' families along with Jolly's trial. They had gotten jumbled, all mixed together. "What does that look like to you?"

Dean took the photo and studied it. "Body looks intact. Only thing missing skin is just the top of the head. Looks like he was scalped."

"And he was the first victim."

Sam started walking, centering the photos along the small dinette. He glanced up to Dean who followed behind him. They stared for a few seconds and then Sam handed him the report he had been reading.

Dean took the paper from him and scanned the first few sentences and then slowed and really started reading. He looked over to the paper/picture trail Sam had mapped out in front of them and then back to his Xeroxed copy.

Dean met Sam's eyes. "Sonuvabitch." Dean growled and grabbed his leather jacket.

WWW

The roar of the Impala on the open road was always a welcome one for Dean and this was no exception. She ate up the highway as he pressed her harder, faster down the wide stretch of blacktop. This truly was Dean's Fortress of Solitude, except most of the time he had a trusty sidekick with him. But he didn't mind that, either.

Sam was nestled sitting shotgun, the windows rolled up, warming himself to the strained efforts of the Chevy's heater. He was fanning through the papers, the reports and reading off points of interest to Dean a they sped away from the farm, away from North Sioux City.

"Okay, pretty much each one of the kids parents attended _parts_ of the trial. None of them were there every day. None that is, except for the Parkman's Grandfather, a Mr. Chahel Tellevast."

"So he was Lynn's father?" Dean asked, keeping his heavy eyes on the road.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. She married Cole Parkman, but she was Lynn Tellevast, daughter of Chahel Tellevast."

"Who now…"

Sam pointed as he read. "Who now lives on an Indian reservation and goes by the name…

"Mr. Tell," the announced to one another at the same time.

Sam flashed two pictures of Matt and Bobby to Dean. They were cute boys, both obviously of Native American blood. "After Lynn married Cole I guess Mr. Tell got pissed and banished her. He didn't like Cole, thought he was a freeloader." Sam read on. "It says Mr. Tell went to all the trials, he knew Jolly and he proclaimed on the stand that Jolly was holding out on how the boys actually died. Especially Bobby. He spent some time talking with Jolly in the holding cell at the jail, on more than one occasion."

"But Jolly said he never told anyone about Bobby until Clancy…"

"Yeah, but if Mr. Tell touched him…"

Dean nodded. "True. Didn't have to tell him anything then."

"Yeah," Sam cracked a smile.

Dean thumped the steering wheel with his gloved hands, keeping his beat. His mouth twisted, his heart wrenched and he punched himself inside. He should have caught it. Mr. Tell had suggested Sam and Dean stay at _the Jolly Rogers_. He knew who they were when they had sat in his sacred circle. He had asked Dean to look up Jolly, tell him he said hello. And had warned them to leave the next day. The older brother's head was swimming with anger. The Lakota, influential in his own right, had conjured a fallen angel - a powerful demon - to get revenge on the killings of his young grandchildren and knowingly unleashed a wrath of horrible mutilation and unspeakable deaths upon innocent people. None of those who were tortured and killed had anything to do with the tragic deaths of the Parkman brothers. None of them deserved what they got. Hell, Jolly didn't deserve it, either. Look for the Good, the Natural, the Earth. Stay away from Evil. That was the Native's advice. And it was good advise that he had not practiced himself. He had refused to help the Winchesters in their time of desperation. Refused to help them on a righteous plight – soul saving. What was more pure than that? Calling them tainted, calling them less than pure, less than good. And then sending them right into his own war, his own battle. Driving back to the reservation now, it struck Dean as strange. It was almost as if Mr. Tell had hoped they'd go there and discover all that they know now… to stop him. End it. Because sometimes what you think you want isn't at all what you thought.

Dean was so engrossed in his own thoughts, his own developments that he hadn't noticed the surprised look upon his younger brother's face next to him or the shifting of his body weight. He didn't see the way his face crumpled as he read on through the file, or his hands clenching into fists. He didn't notice until Sam punched the Impala's glove compartment, denting it from the impact.

Dean's eyes flew over then, quickly observing the damage. His voice boomed in the small compound of the Chevy. "What the…"

"Pull over!" his brother shouted at him. And when Dean continued to drive, his neck craned towards the younger, Sam's voice turned into a scream. **"Pull the fuck over!" **

Dean started to slow down, ease his baby over to the side of the road but Sam had already unlatched the door and was climbing out, mid-stop. He kept on his feet, the motion of the car rolling him right into the shoulder of the road, he snared down the embankment and took off in a wild run through the snow.

Dean brought the car to a halt and swung open his own door, slamming it shut behind him. Sam hadn't taken the time in his race down the hill to bother shutting his door and Dean didn't stop now, either. The older hunter ran around the back of the Impala and watched from above as his kid brother was barreling through an open, white covered field.

"SAM!" Dean yelled down to him, but he kept running. Dean started after him, down the slope of the bank. "Sonuvabitch," he murmured to himself. He biker boots showed no mercy to him as he proceeded down the hill, skidding most of the way and landing on his side and rear end. He gathered himself up and leapt to his feet again, following behind his, obviously, insane brother.

Sam continued his wild run until he came to a fence and with nowhere else to go, he stopped. Dean whispered a quiet thanks up to the sky. The rate he was traveling, the older Winchester would have never caught up with him. Dean's eyes grazed the field and noticed Sam had sunk down, his knees bent up, his head low, his body curled up within itself. Dean jogged up to him, kicking the crisp flakes as his boots brushed against the snow.

"Sam!" he called out, still a shout, but mostly relief calling to him now.

Sam didn't move.

Dean approached his brother's immobile body and he paused a few seconds, staring down at him. Sam was frozen in time, his hands clenching a piece of paper tightly in his hands, his brown hair hung over his knees, his head tucked deep into his chest.

Dean went down on one knee and then the other. "Sam…"

"Just leave. Just leave me here." Sam's shrouded voice elevated from below.

Dean cringed. "Sam, I'm not going to leave you here."

It wasn't the older Winchester who always did the leaving. Not yet, at least.

Sam remained curled in his protective ball. "Please…"

Dean sighed and leaned forward, tugging on the paper Sam had fisted in his hands. He frowned at his younger brother when the paper didn't move and his actions only resulted in the up and down movement of Sam's hands.

"What the Hell?" Dean breathed. "Sam, let go…" Dean tried to pull again and when his brother still crushed the article, Dean brought both his hands out and peeled Sam's impressively strong fingers from it. It finally released and Dean brought the crinkled mass to himself, leaving his brother to re-clamp his hands once again, grasping at nothing.

Dean sat back on his hind haunches and smoothed the paper out as best as he possibly could. The sun was virtually set and only a faint orange glow remained on the horizon. He turned his back in the direction and gave himself enough natural light as he could, squinting in the process. It was a court document, a history report on the Parkman brothers, one Matthew and Robert, ages twelve and eight at the time of their deaths. It listed Lynn and Cole as their parents and listed both sets of their Grandparents. It talked of their father's occupation – a truck driver – and how he moved the boys often. It spoke about Lynn, their mother and how she had originally lived in North Sioux City and had chose to stay home with her sons, to raise them. Lynn had endeared the boys, enjoyed being a mother with all her heart. In fact, she lived for them. Until she died, in a nursery fire, pinned to the ceiling, on the six month birthday of her youngest son.

_Reminds you of us? _Dean's own words came back to haunt him now. His head fell back and he looked up into the darkening heavens, the blue fading to charcoal, stars twinkling down upon the beaten hunters in the snowy field. And they were beaten. Dean shook his head back down, only one word falling slowly from the depths of his gut: _Why?_ Why them? Why this? Why the Parkmans? Why their mothers? Why their life?

Why, after everything they had sacrificed, after everything they had given up? Why? They did nothing but fight for Good, was there no God? Was there no higher power looking out for them, keeping them safe? And not from the physical dangers of the world. _That_ they could handle. Who was going to save them when they discovered it was going to take more than just them to save the other? After all, they were just two people. Maybe that wasn't enough anymore. Dean crushed the paper back into his fist and chucked it across the field.

"Come on, Sam," he swiped his brother's knee.

Sam still had not moved, save for his breathing reflecting from the expansion of his back. "Dean…" the voice came again, "please, just leave."

Dean looked up towards the car, noticing it was barely visible now against the blackened sky. They had to get moving, had to get back on the road, had to do their job. "Sam, this…" Dean stopped. What was he going to say? _This is nothing._ That was stupid. _This doesn't have anything to do with you? With me? With us? _He didn't even believe that. _Sam, you're my brother_. Ha, he'd already pulled that one out of his hat. He couldn't sell it again. Oh, how about - _this doesn't mean your going to become_… "Sam, this sucks." At least it was honest.

And it got Sam to look up from his coiled form. His eyes were red, but there were no tears, just emptiness, fearfulness… and that was worse than all the bawling he could have unleashed. "They died."

Dean wasn't sure who exactly Sam was talking about, but he'd take a stab at it. "It was an accident."

"Yeah, I know. But they still died." He looked to his brother as the shadows of the night started engulfing them, the cold becoming colder. "They all do. All the special children… they die. And so many people they love die with them. Because of them."

Dean's throat worked, moving up and down. Okay, true. Point for Sammy. He couldn't argue the facts. "I'm not leaving you, Sam. Not out here. Not anywhere." While that might not be completely true it was all the cards he had to deal at that moment. After all, they couldn't predict the future and he felt his brother flinch at his words. "Sammy," Dean continued before he could reply, "we still have work to do. There are people that need us, need to be saved." That's how they operated. World first, Winchesters second.

Sam's features looked hardened in the new coming moonlight, he looked oddly dark, distorted in front of Dean. He wasn't the same Sam before Cold Oak anymore, which says a lot since even then he had already started to change. But now, he was the Sam that had spent over a hundred days watching his brother die and some how still had the energy to run down a hill like a mad man and insist he be left behind. "Jolly doesn't deserve us to fight for him. It's not worth risking everything for someone like him." Yeah, definitely not his same Sam.

"What about Clancy, then? Her kids? Timothy? Sam, you know as well as I do this… Batman will keep coming until they are all dead."

"Fucking demons."

It may have been Sam speaking, but they were Dean's words exactly. Demons who take away mothers and girlfriends and make deals with fathers and brothers. Demons who eat away at your insides, forcing you to face yourself every morning with a clock that won't stop ticking.

"Come on." Dean stood up, offering his hand down to the younger hunter. "I'm not leaving you, Sammy."

Sam huffed and refused his brother's hand. Instead he turned and pushed himself up. He wobbled a minute and took a deep dispiriting breath. He looked around the ground a few times and then up to Dean. "Where's that document?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I threw it somewhere over there." Dean motioned to his left and Sam's head followed into the black.

"What? Why?"

Dean glowered at him. "What's wrong with you? Why do you want it? A memento? A token? You already know what it says!"

Sam bounced, his hands fisting up again and then he lurched towards his brother angrily, but stopped at touching him. "You know, Dean, you just don't _get_ it!"

Dean squared his shoulders back to his brother, his stance opening, preparing for a swing. But his voice remained unwavering, loyal. "Yeah, Sam, I do. You're scared."

"Scared?" Sam's voice almost sounded afraid just saying it.

Dean stalked up to him, his chest heaving, his mouth spitting as he spoke. "Yeah, you're scared you're going to turn into some kind of monster and I'm gonna have to kill you!"

Sam blinked and then he shook his head. "No, Dean, I'm scared I'm gonna turn into a monster and _you_ _won't_ be here to kill me." He pushed by his brother, his shoulder smacking into Dean's as he passed, forcing the older to take a step back. But after those words, he probably would have needed the extra step anyways.

Dean followed his brother back up the embankment. He felt miserable. His heart had certainly exploded in his chest, he was sure of it. But right now on the way to see an old Indian Healer and convince him to summon a fallen angel back to his turf so they could somehow manage to cut off its wings… Sam having a meltdown was just not good timing. Sam being mad, not being focused meant a brother distracted from the job. A partner who wouldn't have his back. Which spelled trouble for both of them.

The creak of the Impala's door didn't comfort Dean this time as he slid into the drivers seat and turned the engine over. The silence that remained packed between them didn't make him fell better as he shifted the gear into drive. The tension that pulled the brothers apart made him feel nauseated as he pulled back onto the now street-lit highway. Even the sounds funneling through the speakers did nothing but make him bristle.

_Don't want to go by the devil. Don't want to go by demon. Don't want to go by Satan. Don't want to die uneasy. Just let me go naturally – and when I die, when I'm dead – There'll be one more child born in this world to carry on, to carry on. _

Damn demon things. Jolly's. Dean's. Old Yellow Eyes. Damn them all.

God, he was tired.

"Sam," Dean's voice was vanilla pudding, "I'm sorry."

He felt Sam look over but the older man kept his eyes on the road. "For what?"

Dean shrugged. "For everything, I guess."

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

His hazel eyes stole a glance across the seat. "You know, for what happened to us. That Mom died. That we were chosen…"

"_I_ was chosen," Sam corrected him.

"Sam," Dean's voice was sharp, deep, very John-like, "you are not in this alone. You never have been."

"Dean…"

"If it affects you, then it affects me."

Sam heard him. He turned and looked out the window. He knew his brother was right. The origin, where it all began hadn't just touched Sam. It had wrecked all of them. But Sam couldn't shake the ominous feeling of it being his fault. Of needing forgiven. Everything they had been forced to kill, the life they knew, it all originated because of that fiery night. And Sam knew he was the cause. He had ignited it, even if he hadn't asked for it. The "it" was still the same – it was Sam.

"Sammy, it's the same, you know." Dean turned the Chevy onto the gravel road they had traveled up after their visit with Mr. Tell a few days ago.

The younger hunter whipped his head in the older brother's direction. "What is?"

Dean turned the wheel to where the large teepee sat and shut the motor off. "Us. There isn't anything that I wouldn't do for you that you wouldn't do for me."

Oh, God. Sam felt that truth. He felt his brother slam that right onto his heart and thumbtack it there, incase he ever forgot. Sam hung his head down, his bangs hiding his lids. How could he hold his head up and look at the man who sold his soul so that he could remain with the living? How could he continue on after he was gone? Especially when he knew something Dean didn't. He wasn't worth it. He was tainted. Hell, the old Indian knew it, sensed it, was afraid of it. He had been leery with Sam because he knew someday… all would be afraid of Sam. Including Dean. It _wasn't_ the same.

Sam gave him a pale smile and nodded. It was better this way – pretending - than going into a hunt at each other's throats.

Dean motioned towards the towering teepee, puffs of smoke billowing out of the top.  
"Ready?"

Sam nodded and grabbed the door handle, jerking it open as the hinges sounded back to him. He felt his brother swing his legs out on the other side.

"Dean?"

Dean stopped and waited.

"I'm… I'm sorry, too."

Dean shoved himself out of the Impala and then snuck a peek back inside. "If you'd stop being an ass, little brother, you'd never have eat those words again."

WWW

There wasn't really anywhere to knock on the teepee, not that they would have planned that route anyways. The door was made of a heavy burlap that draped down to the Earth below. On their last visit the Lakota was pleased to meet the hunters, invited them eagerly in as they had pulled the burlap back. This time the brothers caught the old man by surprise.

Dean pulled the gunny over and folded it back so he could tramp into the teepee first, while his little brother had to bend over sideways and kink his neck to the side just to awkwardly fit through the opening.

Mr. Tell was sitting off to the center of the dirt floor, flanked in leathers of animals he had most likely killed, furs he had skinned warmed the floors and there was a great fire built in the center near where the red man sat. His face was pensive and hot from the heat, he rocked from side to side, his hands spread apart, chanting in a low, rhythmic hum to himself.

Sam dropped the weapons duffel near the door and the brothers walked in tandem towards the old man. As the Winchesters approached silently from behind, he automatically hunched forward in response, the low chant ceasing.

"In the morning you did not go." Mr. Tell's simple and robotic voice rose through the fire and into the air.

Sam and Dean slightly relaxed under his words. "No," they responded in unison.

"Then you've come to stop me." His head turned, casting a slight look over his shoulder towards them. "I knew you would."

Dean walked around the old man, watching his body until he was able to see his face and then his eyes. Dean could tell a lot by looking into someone's eyes. "That's why you sent us there in the first place." Dean stopped, standing in front of the man now. "Isn't it?"

It took Mr. Tell a minute to find the right words to answer him and when he did, it came out as a slight nod of the head.

It was Sam's turn to walk around the fire to face the Lakota. He looked up to the younger man with all-knowing orbs. Visions Sam could not yet comprehend, futures untold, destinies unfulfilled, truths unspoken.

"We're going to help you stop it," Sam explained.

Mr. Tell's features softened in response. "My bloodline was taken from me by Jolly Rogers. By his actions. His decision. I wondered why. Who gave him the right? He chose not to help my Grandson. Passed him over. Let him drown. When he did that he took Bobby from me and then Matt. And Cole. My heritage. My life force was… severed." His voice had a bottomless pain to it. "I thought he deserved revenge. My whole life I have counseled my people and others on forgiving. I've consoled those who have lost. Then it was my turn. I saw hatred in my heart. Man's law could not make things right so I did. There was just no other way."

"You summoned a demon," Dean thwarted.

"A fallen angel," Sam jagged in.

Dean serrated after his brother, "You couldn't look to the Natural or the Good…"

They were really sick and tired of being screwed with. And it all came back to the beginning with this one.

"It's okay," Mr. Tell accepted their anger. "Practice what you preach, right?"

Sam looked back to the old Native and sat down near the fire across from him. He took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to find a calm between the words and emotions. "So, what happened?"

The Lakota thought about that. The how's and why's, the where's and when's. They didn't seem so important to him anymore. "I did a ritual that my Grandfather had told me of long, long ago. Never to be used, but to be educated from, gain knowledge, to know in case I ever knew another practicing black magic. Maybe I could stop things or warn if I saw the signs. I never thought I would be the one using the massive power. But… I asked for help in fighting this Evil. I thought maybe I could spin it, make it work to my advantage. Let me control things. I begged for help with my solace, from the pain and what was sent to me was… not what I expected." He gazed at the fire for a moment, catching the younger man staring back at him. "Some things are just born Evil."

Sam blinked back in his direction, trying to grasp if the old man was looking at him or staring into the fire. He felt Dean sit down next to him, his shoulder resting against Sam's. "So, you've seen it?" Dean asked, pressing the muscles of his upper arm to his younger brother's. Something told him Sam might need the extra support.

Mr. Tell's eyes filled with a dark terror. "Yes, I've seen it. I've touched it." He gazed down to his hands and wiped them on one another.

"What did you ask for it to do?" Dean batted back.

"To destroy Jolly." He looked up to both brothers. "I thought it would kill him. I never thought…" his eyes filled up with water and they spilled over onto his cheeks, "I never thought it would slaughter his family. When I asked for solace, it heard revenge. And I wanted some comfort for what happened, I did. For what he did to Bobby. That boy was special to this World. He deserved more than any of those other children to be saved."

Dean felt a wave of tension build up in the muscles next to him. He felt the anxiety from Sam, he knew there were questions his brother wanted to ask the Lakota. Hell, there were questions Dean wanted to ask him as well. Unlike the younger man, though, Dean honestly didn't know if he was ready for the answers. That frightened him in the night. Not the fact that he didn't know the answers, but the fact that he didn't know if he could handle them. He was suppose to be the strong one.

_Promise me, Dean. Promise me you'll kill me._

That was a promise he never intended on carrying out.

"Special like me. Like I was?" Dean heard Sam's soft voice topple over the flames and meet the Lakota's ears.

"We're all special to the Earth," he answered. "But there are those who are special to do more. To the World and all its offerings."

"The chosen?"

The old Indian nodded.

"But they all die."

His eyes twinkled back to the younger man. "Not all."

Sam shrugged. "I don't… I'm not…"

"We see what we want to see," Mr. Tell's eyes clouded in abandonment, "But that doesn't mean that we see what we are intended to see. There are always wars to be fought and we all have our duty to the ones we are chosen for. You _both_ have important roles in your war."

Dean felt Sam's weight lean onto his shoulder. He looked up to him. "We fight, Sam. We'll fight until…"

"You're more than a warrior." The words forced Dean to look across the fire. "You are the Protector."

Dean frowned. "Yeah, I'm here to protect you from your freakin' war with a Goddamn fallen angel."

The Native's eyes fell, his shoulder's sagged. "I tried to stop it on my own after I heard about Jolly's wife. His father. But the power it holds is so strong. I wasn't controlling it anymore. I never was."

The older hunter sighed. His body leaned forward, breaking the connection he had with his little brother. "Okay, well, that's how we think we can help," Dean stole a quick glance at Sam. "We need you to summon it back here. Back to you. And then… we think we can kill it. Stop it."

Mr. Tell nodded. "What will happen to me?"

Sam shook his head. "We don't know for sure. Hopefully, nothing."

The red man's cheeks were dry now. He looked tired, he looked old, he looked ready. "We're going to need to get a few things together," he instructed.

The great teepee was still littered with essence from the Lakota's last ritual. They gathered the sandalwood oils, the jasmine, the cinnamon, the sapphires, moonstone, and onyx. They brought in wood chips – cedar and oak and soaked them in belladonna, which Dean warned Sam not to touch as it was highly poisonous.

The old man placed a kettle on top of a black stove and added in his ingredients, mixing with it liquids and oils. He took a jagged kitchen knife and sliced his hand open, letting his fresh blood drip into the concoction until it poured out into an orange colored goo. He placed the mixture into three cylinders and positioned them in front of himself as he sat back at the great fire.

He instructed the boys to rid themselves of their coats and gloves while Mr. Tell adorned himself with a robe of bear fur and rested a crown of large feathers on his head.

"Great," Sam commented in a low voice to his brother. "You would have to have the Prince of Darkness splattered all over your chest."

Dean glanced down at his Ozzy Osbourne shirt, his tongue wagging back at the older hunter. He looked back up to Sam. "Ozzy always rules, dude."

The old Lakota motioned for each Winchester to join him, taking their hands, forming a human circle. The Native tossed in the goo, letting it slither its way into the dancing heat and then began his chant. It was a higher tone than his regular voice, musical and mesmerizing. His body began to shift from side to side, gracefully sauntering in a rocking motion, taking strength from one brother and forcing it into the other.

Sam felt the tight grip under the Lakota's clutch. This time, it didn't feel afraid or fearful. It was… respectful. Sam held on and waited. The magic started from Mr. Tell, the heat and energy surging out of him through this fingertips to greet Dean's. The older brother felt a rush blaze into his body and travel through to his tight grip with Sam.

The younger man took the power in, letting it flow through his hands and across his shoulders, swelling all over his being. He was submerged. It quirked his nerves and a muffled tickle caught in his throat, pushing outwards until it released into the heat surrounding him. His head was spinning, dizziness trying to claim him as he attempted to decipher what it was running through him – Good or Bad. He was pretty confident with his answer, though.

The force ended back to where it started, with Mr. Tell. The old man fell forward, his headdress cutting it close with the open flames and feathers. The energy from the two brothers combined with the Supernatural hit him like a plane crash. He slipped out of consciousness and then back again, his stomach lurching into his throat. He opened his orbs, pupils filling them, disengaged and retracted. He promptly let go of the hunters' hands. "It is here."

Sam swallowed.

Dean jumped to his feet immediately. "Where?"

"Last time it came to me in the stables…"

Sam pushed up and stood next to his brother. They each reached for the duffel at the same time. Each had a machete. Each had a blade. Each had a shiv. Each had a glock. Each had the other's back. It was the same.

They burst out of the teepee and across the Indian's field - the land of his people - and came to the stable doors. Dean pulled on the left, Sam took the right as they opened the wide wooden gates.

The hybrid-angel stood on the far side of the stable, gaunt and magnificent. Its vast webbed-wings were spread mammothly, almost reaching the length of the interior between the stalls. Its face was tight, the muscles under its taught cheeks rippling upon excitement, its thin fingers dazzling, clenching into its hands. And it greeted the hunters with a smile, fangs falling sharply on the curve of its mouth, drool dripping onto the dirt below. There was no crimson draining from it now. It was in flawless, mint-condition. Magically delicious. It looked at the brothers at the same time, seeing them both together and sorting out exactly what it wanted from each. Because for this angel, the brothers were not the same. They were very much different.

**Playlist: **_When I die_ from Blood, Sweat & Tears

**A/N:** I'm still working on Chapter Six, although it is pretty much completed. The story will end there – it's kind of a long chapter! Thanks again and hopefully the email glitch will be taken care of shortly!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Again, thanks for the reviews! This is the last chapter of this story! The fight is on – will the Winchesters prevail? Ah, just read a few pages and find out.

**Chapter Six: The Breaking**

Dean raised his gun up and fired once into the demon. It allowed the hit to its chest and within a second self-sealed itself back up. Its bulky-veined wings already spread, the creature leapt from its position and shot straight into the air. It flapped its muscles majestically in the narrow room, kicking filthy dust up from the Earth below. It circled around the small area, the rock mixing in with the dirt from below creating a thick sand-like storm around the hunters.

Dean had entered on the left, Sam had entered on the right. Neither had gone very far but now their vision was totally obscured. Sam cracked his eyes to the left and thought maybe he could see his brother's dark form inching through the whirling silt.

" Dean!" Sam yelled out, but the drum from the thunderous storm drowned his voice out. Even to himself. Sam took a few steps forward, his glock held straight in front of him, steady. He watched for movement other than the swirling little particles. He raised his eyes up, hoping to catch sight of the creature flying above them but his vision was limited. He walked further into the stable. He squinted hard watching for movement, studying close. More than anything he didn't want to confuse his brother's body for the angel. The mixture of Earth slammed against his skin, thickening in his hair and pelted his eyes. Sam rubbed at them frenzied. "Dean!"

His older brother was farther ahead, but neither was aware of it. He had his pistol still pulled and aimed as well. The elements swarming around him were minimizing his search, abusing his body as it was his younger brother's. He stayed close to the stable doors, counting the beams as he proceeded forward. Dean was an excellent hunter. He didn't need just his eyes. Or his ears. He had natural instinct and that was something the fallen angel wouldn't be counting on.

The demon was enjoying the show. It had stopped flying moments before, after the first of the dirt had kicked up. Once the storm had began it could control it from basically anywhere. So it stood in the corner, watching through the debris, with predatory eyes, as each brother made separate paths, stalking into the burning rubble. Its skin curdled back again, muscles bunching under its sheath. Small finger-like bubbles bulged out, begging for release from its captor. Its black eyes suddenly blazed, turning red-hot and it strolled nonchalant into the twirling Earth. It had two prospects in front of it, two missions and it knew which had to go down first. It sauntered dead ahead for Dean Winchester.

The older brother had closed his eyes and shut off his ears as he continued to advance. He pushed back the roar around him and listened to his body, sensed the hairs on his arms, felt the temperature differences surrounding him and walked right into the path of the oncoming menace.

The swirling of the rock and dirt seemed to lessen as he continued forward and Dean noticed both the feeling of hot and cold running near him now. He lifted his lids through grit and grime and was immediately aware of the scratching of rocks against his sclera. The .45 in front of him hit resistance and he opened his blood shot orbs, staring straight ahead to where the angel stood. The barrel of his glock was pressed up against the demon's mighty chest. Its stature was mostly small in the legs, but the creature made up for it in upper body strength. Muscle upon muscle riveted down its torso, the width spanned double that of Dean's own impressive build.

"_Patronus, sto sub."_ Its words hissed from its curved mouth.

Dean cocked his head… and his gun. The demon spread its arms out to the hunter, the skin rippling underneath, begging him to take the shot. Daring him.

"_Capiam iucunditas in caedes vos."_

Dean smirked_. Kill him?_ Who did this thing think it was? Batman? Dean scoffed. "Not if I kill you first." He fired point blank into the chest and hit the angel. Its body yanked back, pricking as the bullet pierced its torso. Dean didn't give it a chance to think. He hit it again with his glock, aiming to where a heart would be. Deep holes screwed into its dark flesh, tearing at it like rubber balloons, not at all like flesh wounds. A thick grave reddish substance leaked from the puncture sites, trickling onto the rubbery blackness.

Dean blinked as the creature hissed something rather familiar to him.

"_SSSSaaaammmmyyyyy."_

The hunter's eyes constricted, his heart vaulted. For a brief second Gordon flashed in his mind. He saw his little brother blown up. Shot at. Bleeding. Dead. "You leave my brother alone!" Dean hit the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen with two more rounds. And then paused a second and hit him again.

The angel took the bullets in and seemed to mold them to its form. Digesting them. It ascended towards the older man. _"Mei."_ It ferociously lurched at Dean, grabbing him again by the throat. It held on to his neck with one cold hand and started an airtight squeeze. The demon raised its other hand, bubbles rolling down the elbow chasing one another to meet at its fingers, compiling at the ends. They erupted together in pops of shooting black liquid to reveal razor sharp blades. Dean's head was reeling, shapes were contorting, images fading in and out. He wasn't sure which way was up and where he was anymore, but no way did Batman just turn into Wolverine.

With quick precision the angel swiped sadistically at Dean's abdomen, red darkening his already black t-shirt, soaking through to dampen Ozzie's face. The angel smiled greedily. The wounds weren't made to kill, just to amuse. It gleefully scrutinized as Dean's eyes watered and his body bucked against the pain. It pressed its silvered index finger to the hunter's lips as Dean gurgled a sound.

"_Shhh..."_ Its throat sizzled.

The demon traced a path from his mouth down the older brother's neck, pausing a moment on the weakening heartbeat and down to his chest. The sharp knife quickly tore through the flimsy fabric of the tee, exposing flesh. Dean's chest heaved anxiously, his clammy white skin was drenched with cold sweat and it goose-pimpled as the razorblades scratched against him. The angel tickled its prey, jiggling the points of his blades over Dean's pectorals, flicking his nipple. The hunter attempted to swing back, bring his legs up and kick again, but his energy was draining fast. He looked down just as the angel turned up and their eyes met, repulsion for each other spilling over. The demon sliced into Dean's skin, scarlet spurting out as its finger artfully drew a bloody heart over his chest. Dean's legs flailed, his arms twisted and he watched as the hand came forward again and settled over the dripping heart. Its bony fingers curled staging itself over his aorta and started to press in. Dean could feel the swimming of his skin under the coldness of the fingers. It seized into white-hot pain. Melting into his skin. The smell of his own burning flesh rushed up in small clouds of smoke to reach his nose. He felt the world around him shift and spin, topsy-turvy, the colors of the stables blending, the air leaving his lungs, his heart thumping, beating slower and he thought maybe he was starting to… succumb.

The angel also hadn't counted on Plan B – Sam Winchester. Sam couldn't see, he couldn't hear but he could feel. When it came down to it, when Sam allowed himself to really concentrate, the ties that bound him to his brother was probably stronger than any other sensastion he had. It was a fierce intensity, a sixth sense. He felt a rush of need, a cry of despair. He felt the life leaving his brother's body and he turned. The blinding swirl of dirt thickened as he forced his way to where he knew – where he felt - his brother was.

They had saved Timothy together. They hadn't seen any of the horrifics occur with the other killings and Sam wasn't about to start now. Mr. Tell may have been right, Dean may be his Protector but nothing had stopped Sam before in protecting his brother right back. He may not be able to see a destiny pre-told or a future created just for him but he could now see his brother. Red. Bloody. Breathless. Choking to death.

_Oh, God, not this way_, Sam breathed. It was a hundred Tuesdays all over again. It was day zero, only seconds to spare. It was his life halting, skidding on asphalt without a seatbelt. Without protection.

Sam raised his glock and shot it directly into the side of the animal's head, through one ear and out the other. It shrieked at the zipping sound, the force throwing the angel off balance, releasing Dean in a thump on the ground. Sam's eyes flicked once to his brother's motionless slumped form and then back to their avenger.

Its eyes ran up and down Sam's lanky body and the saliva it was producing multiplied. It slurped strings of spit, reached out knarly fingers to the younger and stroked his face. It gazed with passionate sight, searching the hunter's blue-green orbs for his sign. Waiting for his permission. It smiled at Sam, fangs oozing, rancid breath warming his mouth and then it spoke to him.

"_Mei."_ Its eyes shimmered, gleaming red. _"Nostri."_

Sam's eyebrows cramped together, his face-hardened. Unable to wrap his thoughts around the words, Sam mustered up the only thing he could think of to say: "No." He shot it with his gun again and again, ripping the bullets into its chest, its body twitching back with the motions. Sam reached back and grabbed his machete from his back swinging it around his body. The creature's reflection glistened back in the shiny blade. Catching glimpse of its own sight, it barreled back into the weakening dirt, hissing and sputtering as it disappeared.

Sam dropped to the ground and grabbed at his unresponsive brother. "Dean." Sam tapped Dean's tepid face lightly and his brother slowly stirred, rolling his head forward, his chin falling to his chest. Green slits lifted and greeted Sam's.

"Where is it?" Worse than sandpaper, but still harmonious to Sam.

"It's still here. I… I think I scared it off for a minute."

Dean made a face at that. Scared if off? What the Hell did…

Sam felt his hesitation. "It saw the machete and got scared."

_Oh_. Dean scrambled his legs under him trying to push himself up. Large hands reached down and pulled along with him. Together they could breathe life back into the older brother. Together they could defeat a fallen angel. Maybe together was still enough.

"It still has its wings?"

Sam nodded, resting Dean against a stable beam. "I think it knows that we… know how to kill it."

Dean's gaze snapped up, visually examining his brother. "Did it hurt you?"

Sam though of the cold dead-like hands touching his face, almost tenderly. "No."

"Good." Dean started to push away from the beam, clutching his chest through his torn shirt.

"I think it… wants me." He thought twice about saying it. It scared him. But it was out in the open now. Sometimes not seeing things the way he was suppose to see them was, well… safe.

"Yeah," Dean answered. "Me, too. Like Tom Cruise jumping on couches wanting." He was unwavering. Confident. Heroic. No doubt in his mind this thing would not win. No one, nothing was taking Sam.

There was a ruffle in the dirt storm behind them and Dean found adrenaline to be his friend again. He pulled his machete out and motioned Sam with a flick of his sore neck. "Get behind me."

Sam stared a second. His older brother's breaths were deep but coarse. His ribs near his collarbone were visibly retracting. He was sucking in air, his lungs damaged, his throat most likely burnt. Blood was dripping from his chest, raw skin was visible where the burns had occurred. The brow of his forehead was peppered in tiny beads of sweat. Sam watched as the hunter shook his head a minute, clearing his mind, bringing him back to the job at hand. Sam winced. "Dean…"

"I'm the shepherd, Sam." Dean shoved his brother behind him.

"Protector," Sam mumbled.

"Whatever."

They didn't move forward. Sam doubted Dean could even walk if he tried. So they waited, machetes raised over shoulders, eyes searching from the ground up.

And an air raid was the preferred method of attack. The angel came from above. One flutter was all Sam heard when its pidgeoned feet hit Dean in the face, toenails clawing at him. The aim was for his neck, the swipe was deep above his chin but superficial against his Adam's apple. It bobbed as did Dean's head. He narrowed his eyes. "Is that all you got?" he hollered out, blinking heavily, repositioning his hands on the blade's handle. "Come on!" It hadn't bested him.

Sam knew it would hit his brother again. It had to take the Protector out to claim its reward. Sam watched as Dean leaned forward in a swaying motion. He shifted his weight and balanced himself from falling forward. He wobbled twice, catching himself from kissing the dirt both times. His body swung from left to right, his eyes darting all over the dirt filled stable. He was exhausted, too tired physically and mentally. The older brother was spent and in no shape to fight, let alone take another hit.

Sam took a few quiet steps to the left, creating space between Dean and himself. Another step, baiting himself on a pole for the monster to claim. "Come on." His voice a whisper, only for himself to hear. "Adeo mihi."

Sam waited for it to pounce again because he knew something Dean didn't. He could feel the angel, too. There was a winded hiss, a ruffle of wings, a rattle like a snake and the animal charged in from the whipping dirt. It flew to the younger hunter and grasped him with its large hands, gripping him to its wide chest. Dean watched in a fear-filled horror as the bat-thing took Sam into the air, turning to steer them away.

"Sam!" There was fright he couldn't hide in his voice this time.

And Sam heard it. He reached his hand to his side, the ground below rushing from him, the black rubbery skin pressed tightly against his cheek. He grabbed hold of his boot knife and pulled it out, gripping it tightly in his fist. He swung it around mid-air and then plummeted it into the beast, carving it deep into its back. The angel curved itself back and screamed. It started spiraling down in a frantic spin. Its horrendous hands let go of Sam and funneled back for the blade that it could not reach.

The younger Winchester fell from above toppling quickly in a heap of legs and arms to the dirt floor.

"Sam!" Dean was already hobbling towards his brother. His legs were weak from lack of oxygen, barely holding himself up. His lungs still gasping for puffs of air while flashes of lights and sparkles danced behind his lids.

Sam was already on his feet, though, and looking up. Devil-red eyes glared down at the hunters from the darkness. It swooped without hesitation, wings pulled back taut against its back. All of its energy directed towards Sam.

Dean shoved his little brother back down to the ground and loomed over him. The animal hissed crying out at the older Winchester. _"Patronus!"_ It swooped around defiantly. It teased Dean, mocked him. It wasn't all talk, though. It was preparing for a deadly swipe.

"You can't have him!" Dean called out. "He's not yours!" _Protect Sam. Save Sam._

Sam stood up behind him, towering over his ailing sibling. He grabbed his shiv and threw it towards the flying form as it plunged towards them. It was a swift strike to its neck, sinking it to the hilt.

It tried to scream out but the blade counteracted its reaction and it let out a throttled sound. It fell and railed to a raging stop. It reached up with urgent hands trying to pull the knife out.

Dean's glock hit the demon in the head just as the knife ejected. It jolted. Another bullet punched it again in the chest. It stumbled back. Deep, dark red blood oozed out of the creature from every opening, the scarlet turning black as it hit the dirt below. Dean circled in front of the demon. Sam took the back. They brought up their machetes each on either side of it. Sam stole a quick look at Dean. He gave him a half-nod and silently hard-wired within both brothers, they counted…

One. Two. Three.

Their blades came down off rhythm with one another and struck. Sam hit first, slicing into the butt of the right wing. The angel's shrill rocked the stable doors. It cried out, turning its body away from the younger and towards the older. Dean's blade was already coming down as he slashed the left wing. His arms were like noodles, though, and he didn't have the strength to cut deep. He pulled the machete off the dark appendix with a low grunt.

The creature pulled inward, bringing its wings as close as possible. Sam pulled out and up and hit it again, the right wing falling off to the ground, black liquid spilling from its case. Dean hit the left again and again. The muscles of the angel bouncing and jumping as the blade made contact. The left wing was dangling by mere tissues as the angel started to twist. Dean raised his blade, watching the injured animal twirl and rotate, looking for the best opportunity to strike. There was a muffled gasp and the brothers eyes widened as the final fiber ripped from the demon's body, the wing falling to the ground. The black juice spilled from the left, as feverishly as the right, drenching the soil and Dean's boots in the process.

The angel stilled, curled in a protective ball. All was silent. The dirt storm fell to the ground, whisking close, hovering the Earth below. Brown swirls of silt and rock crept past the hunters and started wrapping itself around the creature. The angel's ankles engulfed in a tenacious tornado of soot, climbing up to its legs. It strangled its way up the muscular body, suffocating the beast from the outside in. Its eyes shifted, the pink dying out to charcoal black. It closed them briefly and then monstrously snapped open and looked to Dean.

"_Patronus… sto… sub." _

The ghostly wraith of dirt pulled the demon to the ground and started pulling it from between the brothers. Dean stole a glance over Sam's shoulder and saw a whirling hole in the Earth, funneling down, seeming to have no end. A bottomless pit. The monster shrieked as it was yanked by the unseen mucky forces, it's fingernails digging into the dirt. Claw marks dug deep into the ground, its hands mudding with purchase.

"_MEI!" _

Dean's eyes flew to his brother standing off-center next to the angel. Before the older man could even register a plan, the demon initiated its own. It reached out and grabbed hold of the younger hunter's ankle and dropped him in a perplexing tailspin with it. Sam's arms flailed, thrashing at his sides. He tried to grab at something, anything that would stop him, keep him in the stable, keep him near his brother. The angel had both hands wrapped brutally around him now and it slowly ascended Sam's body, hanging on to his calves as they quickly increased their speed towards the swarming dirts of death. Sam could feel the power surge through him as the invisible forces pulled its two captors towards it, preparing to reap the reward.

"Sam!" He heard it once and then felt a crushing pressure on top of him. His eyes closed tightly as he was pulled into the unknown. The animal's hands released and his legs were his own now. His body stiffened. He was surly hurtling into the strange and unidentified. He had fallen with the angel and the Earth had swallowed them both whole. He clutched his hands severely and prayed, wishing for the strength to open his eyes.

Dean watched as his little brother's body lashed out violently as the angel ripped him from his side. He watched heartbreakingly as they barreled towards the sinkhole. It would be pointless to shoot. He certainly couldn't throw his blade. There was only one thing he could think of to do. He ran. He charged with all he had left inside of him and threw himself on his brother's flogging body. He hit the demon with his fist as he rocketed forward, pounding its head back. He grasped the cold hands and wrenched them off Sam's calves. "Mine!" Dean yelled and he pushed the creature back with the last bit of strength he had. The angel howled at him as it was pulled from the hunters, its hands stretching across the dirt to try one last desperate attempt… if… it… could just… reach…

Dean turned himself around and wrapped his body around his still tumbling brother. He felt Sam still being pulled from him and he ducked his head down bracing both of them. Holding. Grabbing. Clutching. Seizing. White knuckles losing all feeling. His boots skidding into the rock and dirt. His biceps shaking with effort.

Then all motion seemed to stop. All noise dissipated. Fear seemed to lift. Dean felt his heart thump loudly in his ears, in his neck, in his chest. He felt the heat pouring from his skin, felt the nausea in his stomach. But he didn't see Sam. He didn't feel Sam.

He opened his eyes and looked down, the brown dirt glaring back at him. He raised his body up onto his elbows and looked underneath him. Brown. Hair. Shaggy. _Oh, God._ Dean closed his eyes again and whispered it over and over. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God." His Sam.

Dean took a quick look behind him, watching as the Earth, kicking at his heels, slowly closed up, sealing itself in a fuss of mud and clouds. Dean turned to roll off of Sam and felt sudden resistance. He glanced back at his younger brother and saw a stunned Sam. His eyes were shut tight, his lips pale, one hand was fisted in his brother's shirt covering Dean's heart, the other fisted over his own. Dean felt a lump in his throat and swallowed it thickly down. He pulled back over his brother, still propped on his elbows.

"It's gone, Sam."

Sam didn't budge. He heard his brother. And then that registered with him. _He heard his brother._

"You okay?"

His voice. It was his brothers voice. Sam felt a shift above him and sensed a lub-dub. One that didn't belong to him. Dean's heartbeat. How could he have missed it?

Sam shook his head.

Dean gulped and felt the blood drain from him. They had seen a lot of blood lately. He nodded towards his brother. "Yeah, okay. You need another minute?"

Sam needed a lifetime more of minutes.

"Sammy?"

He gave him a quick nod.

_Good_, Dean thought. Because in all honesty, he needed a minute, too.

Sam felt his brother shift down towards the younger hunter. He heard the fall of weapons on the Earth below and his body was slowly lifted into watery arms. The smell of sweat and guns and oil filled his sinuses. His cheek rubbed against the thin black fabric and he could hear the beating of Dean's heart now. His senses were being filled again with what he knew best in his life. What he knew best in his World. He felt Dean's chest heave and he spoke to him, "It's gonna be okay," he promised the younger and then he paused. A final word escaped him sarcastically, honey-coated with a hint of love, "Baby."

And Sam's stillness was replaced by a silent, uncontrollable quaking.

Dean rubbed the back of his little brother's head, messing his hair up even more and the ground below the older started to blur. No way was this soldier losing his composure. Dean blinked his eyes quickly. Probably the rock and grit rubbing against them, he told himself. His eyes did hurt. Hell, he hurt. He hushed his brother and soothed him, giving himself as Sam needed him to. But he was tired. He let his body sag a bit and his head fell forward, finding a spot in the crick of Sam's neck. It was okay to let go sometimes. He closed his eyes and forgot about being a Warrior and a Protector and just let himself be... soothed.

WWW

It was snowing again. The boys were more than ready to get out of South Dakota. The fallen angel was long gone. The Winchesters had sent it back to where it came from, without its wings. With everything they knew, that meant the angel was in for a lifetime of, well, Hell. Lesser devils and demons would make it pay. Coming back in such disgrace and after reigning over them, the angel would indeed be one of Hell's Most Popular Bitches.

Jolly Rogers and his family, what was left of it, were safe. They were grateful to the brothers. Clancy had hugged them repeatedly, thanking them through tears and smiles. She had her brother and her father and her children. With so much lost, there was still so much to be thankful for. She wrapped up day-old cinnamon rolls for the boys for the morning, her hips swishing as she walked briskly to and from the kitchen.

Jolly tried to approach both hunters but it was an abrasive reunion. Dean couldn't make eye contact with the bastard. Sam couldn't stop staring. Two boys had ultimately died from the decisions Jolly had made that terrible day. Two brothers were lost to a cold South Dakota Lake. Never to know what their lives might have been. What each may have become. One brother giving his life for the other. Or maybe to the other. It's difficult sharing a life with a sibling. Sharing your food and room. Sharing your thoughts and dreams. Sharing your heart. Because when one half of a whole sinks before your very eyes the other plummets and drowns. Jolly had to live with his decisions, his secrets for the rest of his life. Kind of like the heroes of the story.

Timothy was quiet. He shook the boys hands, kept his face down, his mouth hiding smiles that would one day reappear when he least expected it. They all carried wounds now that would never be healed. There wasn't enough pills or therapy or even time to make it all better. There are just some things that are unacceptable in life and haunt us all forever.

The old Lakota was dead when the boys returned to the teepee. Nothing bleeding or Supernatural seemed to be present, although the brothers knew it was masked. Made to look like he went peacefully and naturally. Incognito. Would have probably happened whether the angel finished its wrath or not, Dean explained to Sam. Conjuring up a powerful demon like that, you'd better be prepared for the bite that comes at the end.

The doors of the Impala shut at the same time and the Winchesters were silent, save their breathing. Sam took the wheel, Dean checked his watch – 12:30 a.m. Day number eighty-three. "Let's cross a border and find a bed, Sam," he coughed out. He hated South Dakota. Cold Oak. The badlands. And now North Sioux City. Dean needed to get out, he needed to recuperate and they both needed to sleep.

Sam easily agreed. It'd feel good to lay his head down. Shut his eyes and make another fruitless attempt to find the sandman. Before this hunt, before fighting an avenging angel and meeting a Native Healer gone bad, Sam thought all that mattered was saving his brother from the pit. With everything he knew now, though, he realized after they succeeded in that minor task, there were bigger plans ahead for them. They weren't just fighting a war against demons they had inadvertently released, they were major players in a war still to come. There were still plans to unfold. And if Sam didn't save Dean, he knew he was going down. In a big way.

The car gave a jolt underneath him and Dean's head smacked onto the Impala's glass. "Sam!" His brother barked out.

The younger man adjusted his grip on the wheel and the Chevy glided them in the snow to Iowa.

WWW

Sam ran in and paid for the room while Dean rested against the windowsill. The snow fell so quietly, so beautiful. It was an odd thing to see after such monstrous activities of late. That was how Heaven and Hell worked, he guessed. They each had to give their take on the World for others to see what the afterlife might bring. Scare them one minute and warm them the next. Even if it was with snow.

The room was very Disco. 1970's décor and not old, it was new and intentional. The beds were soft, the comforters were fluffy, the pillows smelled good. Crisp. Clean. Fresh. The bathroom was bigger than normal. The shower had lots of hot water and a massaging pressure nozzle. The TV turned on and off with the click of the remote. All in all, it was a great room, the nicest they had stayed at in weeks. Silently they were both grateful.

Dean had stripped in the bathroom, checking the scratches on his abdomen. He threw his Ozzy t-shirt away with a curse and started removing the makeshift dressing from over his chest that Sam had doctored up in the Impala. They were red and raw but he'd live.

A soft knuckled rap on the door stopped his wounded self-evaluation.

"What?"

"You okay?"

He sighed. "Yeah." He rubbed lightly over his braided neck. Still hurt to swallow. Talking was worse. Breathing was harsh.

"I'm walking down to the gas station on the corner. Want anything?"

_God, yes._ "Beer."

There was a chuckle from the other side of the door. "Be right back."

Famous last words. Dean would have to make a note of that in their "unofficial rulebook." No more using that phrase. He almost called out to Sam and told him to wait, that he'd go with him, but that was childish. Overprotective. Sam could run to the gas station by himself without finding trouble or without it finding him. This was, indeed, Iowa. The birthplace of John Wayne, covered Bridges… and those damn ghosts out in the field at Kevin Costner's farmhouse.

The shower felt amazing. His muscles relaxed under the spray. His bruises felt battered and pacified at the same time. He turned his face towards the water and he let it wash over him. Let it cleanse him. His mind wandered, though, to the coming days. Almost done with the eighties. Dean laughed to himself. Maybe they were looking at this all wrong. Maybe they needed to go in a totally different direction. They could find a DeLorean, make a time machine. Or just a way to freeze time.

He shut the water off and let the wetness drip from him. The drops seemed to move in slow motion. Maybe today was his lucky day. He stepped from the shower and dried off, reassessing his wounds. He grabbed the first aid kit and rummaged through it blindly. He patched his abdomen and redressed his chest with exceptional flair. The t-shirt pulled as he rounded his head, his arms tightly finding the holes as he yanked it down over him. He stepped into his sleeping pants and tugged on the drawstring. Everything on him ached and burned. Outside and in.

Steam rolled out of the bathroom as Dean stepped out of the door and he felt heart thump a couple of slowed beats. He cased the room swiftly, protectively, but not wanting to be obvious. It was a good thing because his rhythm returned at the sight of his younger brother. Sam sat at the small round table near the corner, a twelve pack of Sam's Winter Lager parked in front of him.

Dean smiled and joined him, sinking into the uncomfortable cheap chair next to him. Sam reached over and twisted the top for his brother, pushing the bottle to him. Dean graciously accepted. He took a long drink and let it burn down his throat, stinging his eyes in the process. Dean buried his thumbs into his sockets and blinked a few times, noticing a spread of food off to the side near Sam.

"What's this?" Dean asked, eyeing the goodies.

The younger man offered Dean a plastic fork and spoon. "Here you go." He passed him a chocolate cupcake with chocolate icing stacked on top, a package of beef jerky and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.

The older brother glanced up, curiosity building.

"Happy Birthday, Dean."

A quick snag at the clock radio and Dean shook his head. "Almost 2 a.m., Sam."

"Yeah, the 24th. Just getting an early kick off, that's all."

Dean had ignored his past couple of birthdays after Jess had passed, let it slide by. He had noticed the two of them had shared the same date and hadn't wanted to bring up memories for Sam. But this was Sam remembering his brother, not his dead girlfriend.

Dean shrugged. "Beer and ice cream? Guess any time is good for that." He opened the lid on the pint and pushed it between himself and his brother. "Come on. I'll share."

Sharing wasn't something Dean was particularly good at. Food or anything else important so Sam took advantage or it. He scooped his spoon in and took a big bite of the cold dessert. They sat in silence for a few minutes and tasted the cupcakes. Dean tore into the jerky.

Sam reached behind him and threw him a box, cleverly wrapped in the Sunday comics. Batman graced the top. Dean let out a laugh and then ripped through the paper in one excited swipe.

New cassettes. New Zeppelin. New Zappa. New Heart. New Death Cab for Cutie?

Dean held up the cassette. His eyebrows raised.

Sam shrugged. "Sometimes I get to drive."

Dean's brows returned, his eyes softened. "Thanks, Sam." He took another bite of the ice cream. It tasted really, really good and the coldness numbed his throat. "Twenty-nine forever, huh?" He swallowed hard after saying it. Eating his words. He didn't mean it to sound or come out like that. But it did and it lingered between them pulling at one heart and then the other. On his birthday.

Sam took a minute to chew the rest of his food. He didn't look over to his brother but he thought he felt him say something. Something that made Sam hurt. It burned behind his eyes. Dean's last birthday. No, that wasn't true. Not yet. They still had time. Hope.

He looked over the food to meet Dean's eyes when he thought he was safe to do so. Dean gave him a pale smile. "Sorry, Sammy."

"Dean, if I can't save you…"

"Sam…"

"I don't know what I'm…"

"Drop it, Sam."

Another moment of strained silence. Dean took a drink and placed the bottle gingerly back on the Formica. He stared at the amber glass, traced the white letters, wiped the moisture sweating off the base.

"I might just have to follow you."

His finger stopped. The ice cream and beer suddenly weren't meshing so well. His eyes cracked in Sam's direction. "Don't… don't say that."

His brother ignored the plea. His eyes shifted around the room, settling on his own beer.

"Sam, I didn't make that deal, just for you to…" he lost the words. He couldn't say it. He couldn't even think it.

Sam's features were tight, his face pressed with scuttling emotions, his eyes purposefully not finding Dean's. "I don't think I can make it on my own."

Dean nodded his head. "Yes, you can."

Sam blue-greens snapped up to him. "Yeah, well I don't want to."

No more Christmases. No more Thanksgivings. No more Halloweens.

"It's going to be okay." Dean's voice was thick, sickening-sweet.

No more riding shotgun. No more Bitch. No more feeling like he wasn't safe anymore.

"_You're_ going to be okay."

It wasn't a question but Sam felt his head nod in response and then he smiled… because it was Dean's birthday. "I know." He lied. How can it be okay when you've already lost?

Dean took another bite of his ice cream while Sam downed the remainder of his beer and twisted the top off another. Dean watched him sit back with that far-far-away look cheerlessly adorning him. Caught somewhere else in time. Perhaps on a Tuesday.

The twenty-nine-year-old shut the lid on Ben and Jerry and decided to take up serious beer drinking. The fallen angel had wanted Sam. Indirectly, the thing had even come for Sam. It had seen who was hunting it and rediverted its plan. Teased the boys. Muddled their room. Bloodied their bodies. Messed with their heads.

_There's lots of things gunning for your brother_.

Dean was aware his brother was a target, had a marker on his life. Sam had his secrets, more than Capone, Dean figured. He'd already seen his brother flinch once tonight from Dean's careless comments. Sometimes it was better to let things drop. And sometimes it was better to see what was.

"They weren't us, Sam."

Sam nodded, nursing his bottle. "Yeah, I know."

"But we were connected."

Dean's admission startled the younger man and Sam's eyes lifted to his older brother's. He was his kid again. Looking up to his role model. Seeing his best friend in life. Locking eyes to the one person who could do anything. "Yeah?"

Dean nodded. "Of course. Same demon killed their mom. Bobby was… special." He swallowed after saying it. He hated that reference. "Matt was his little bodyguard."

"Wonder how many more are out there," They hadn't visited this area of their past for so long. Or maybe it was just yesterday.

Dean shook his head. He shrugged. "Probably never really will know."

"But," Sam squinted. "What's it all suppose to mean?"

Sam knew Dean didn't have these answers, but he couldn't help but ask them. He needed to know – he always needed to know. He wanted his freakishly large head to be filled with all the knowledge it could – right now. Instant gratification. Which was something they rarely got. And something his brother couldn't give.

Dean leaned further across the table and placed his hand on his Sam's forearm. "It means we fight. We keep doing what we're doing. If there's more kids out there, we'll fight for them, too. You're alive, Sam. Not all of you died."

Technically…

"And we'll fight for you, too."

Sam felt a sting behind his eyes flare again. The hurt was still there, calling to him from deep down, but this time Sam felt something else. He thought something had wrapped around it, hugging it away. Dean always knew how to make it all better. "First things first." He gave Dean a smile. "It's the same, right?"

Dean hesitated a few seconds and felt that damn lump return to his throat. He gave his brother's arm a tight squeeze. "Yeah, alright. We'll fight for me, too." He studied Sam's expression. He still wasn't back. Not quite. Dean could read him like the back of his hand. "Can't all be cupcakes and ice cream, Sam. Sometimes things are suppose to be hard."

But for the Winchesters, it was always hard, in one way or another.

Sam met his gaze and nodded. Dean let go of his grasp and Sam reached behind his chair and threw another comically wrapped present at him, this one softer.

Dean looked up. "Jesus, Houdini, got anything else back there?"

Sam shook his head. "Saw it after Christmas. Had to get it."

Dean tore into this gift as quickly and eagerly as the first. Sam would miss the boyish excitement Dean carried with him. The thrill, the humbleness even when the gift was so stupid.

"Aw, Sam." Dean unveiled the t-shirt to himself. "This is so…"

"Stupid." They both chimed together.

Dean smiled and started pulling off his other shirt, wincing back the pain.

"What're you doing?" Sam grinned.

Dean had the old one off and was pulling on the new one. "Gonna wear my new shirt."

Sam laughed. "It was a joke."

"Yeah, but it's my birthday present. I mean, I'm not going to wear it in public or anything…"

"No, definitely not."

"So, I figure, I can wear it to bed."

Sam stared at him and smiled from ear to ear. "It looks good on you."

Dean opened another beer. "Ah, I make everything look good, baby brother."

Sam gestured towards the darkened TV. "I saw the Omen was on. Want to watch?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm good."

The hum of the heater kicked on. Sam leaned the neck of his bottle towards his brother and Dean clinked his against it. Sam held there for a second. "To your thirtieth birthday."

Dean smiled. He leaned back on the cushion of the chair, his shoulders finding comfort in it. His lips took a pull from his beer and found comfort there. His eyes found comfort from across the table. They'd killed one hell of a demon, a fallen angel. Shot off some guns. Thrown some knives. Used the machetes. Played in the snow. Drank beer. Ate some cake. All in all, a pretty descent start to his birthday. He grinned over at Sam in his "I'm the Big Brother" t-shirt.

**Translations:** _Patronus, Sto Sub_. : Protector, stand down.

Adeo mihi. (Sam speaks to the angel) : Come to me.

_Capiam iucunditas in caedes vos._ : I will take pleasure in killing you.

_ Mei._ : Mine.

_ Nostri._ : Ours.

_Patronus!_ : Protector!

**A/N:** Again thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it – I enjoyed thinking it through and writing it. Thanks again and see you next time!


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